Fan Jinghua: Opening The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Opening The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Tomas drove through the zigzag country road
And arrived at a provincial sanatorium;
He quickly avoided a local amateur band
And sauntered into a housed hot spring
Where chronic men circled around a floating chessboard.
A splash.
An awkward mermaid. Then, a petite figure
Sprang out of the pool, picked up a book, and held it under the left arm
And forward she cantered without turning her head,
Which Tomas could not help.......
He followed almost on her heels, through the narrow corridors
With institutionalized cells and distorted naked women behind the ajar doors,
And without turning his head, he picked them up in side glimpses.
His gait cleaved and swept (like waltzing) toward a half-deserted bar,
Where he occupied a corner over a small red book randomly opened,
Waiting for his facial expression to compose.
Sensible time had elapsed when he looked up to peep at the girl
Behind the counter and to capture the exact moment and angle
So that her eyes might meet his from different directions.
And they did. Not by chance.
He ordered across the room with exaggerated voiceless mouth,
And she checked his lip-rounding with hers
Three times before settling down to cognac.
He took out his wooden key tag,
And she added to his room fare the brandy and her time
To get out of there and meet him at the outside square.
Perfect for the rhyme.
But any tragic end starts with a unilateral seduction.
Tomas the chronic womanizer wanted to make affairs light, simple and direct,
Never delineating discrete instances into a lineal plot.
For instance, when he was seated on a hostess’ chair, he would order
Without a wink: Take off your clothes!
She would gasp in astonishment, agape, stoned, totally at a loss for words,
But that was what they could expect.
The pulse of electrified flesh would numb the trembling of soul.
His command was not to be repeated,
For he knew better the fatal power of concentration at that moment.
But this girl was different.
For one, she did not walk but leap upon rebounds;
For another, she carried a classic novel under her left arm;
And most of all, she was the name Tereza.
Their encounter could never be fully accounted for
Within the sphere of socio-psycho-somatic constructs of an individual.
There were far too many irrelevant onlookers on the platform in Anna Karenina.
One could see the warnings of danger at every turn
Only when scaling up the winding downslope: Dead Slow!
But they had boarded on a bobsleigh course,
All the eye-stopping spots flickering by, blurred, without a retainable frame.
Eye-to-eye look existed only as a memory
When Tomas looked at Tereza floating along a corridor, swerving
Among tables and chairs before standing behind the counter, half submerged,
While fits of worn-out brass were heard from outside
June 4-5 2007
翻开《生命的难忍之轻》
托马斯一路颠簸穿过九曲十八弯的乡村公路
来到外省的温泉疗养院
他绕开那个噪杂的业余乐队
踱步走进一个热气腾腾的室内泳池
那里大腹便便的男人们泡在水中下象棋
一个女人纵身激起浪花
然后潜过池水然后捡起一本书头也没回
托马斯的眼睛不可避免地……
他尾随那个夹着书的背影穿过走廊
穿过一个又一个相同的隔间和半掩的门内身形走样的裸体女人
他头也不转，眼睛左扫又瞄
抬脚划出几个之字（像华尔兹）来到一个小酒吧的角落
掏出一本红皮小书、随意翻开
等到自己的表情
差不多能够显示出自己是一个心定气闲的专注男人
这时他开始从眉毛上方
偷偷捕捉那柜台后的姑娘抬头或者转脸的瞬间与角度
于是他们的视线终于不期而遇
他以夸大的嘴型无声地说出cognac
三次，那姑娘和他对着口型，然后端来一杯白兰地
他掏出房门钥匙，酒帐算进房费
而姑娘心领神会
那个号码为她找到一场巧遇的理由
一个严重的结果常常以单方面逢场作戏的勾引开始
而玩世玩己的托马斯可不愿际遇连贯成情节
他只想让那事儿简单直接
譬如他一旦坐上了女主人的椅子，便会目不转睛地命令
“脱掉你的衣服”
她或许会吃惊，但是吃惊就是震撼，肉体的冲击往往会覆盖灵魂的颤栗
他知道她甚至不愿从目瞪口呆的机械中醒来
他依然目不转睛，他不会重复那个命令
（他知道那个时刻的专注性感得足以致命）
然而这个姑娘与众不同，
其一，她走起路来一蹦一跳
其二，她左腋下还总是夹着一本厚厚的经典小说
更因为她就是那个名字：特丽莎
因此这场邂逅犹如情节的伏笔暗示着沉重的重逢
绝非一个角色的社会心理肉体构成所能解释
譬如《安娜•卡列尼娜》的站台有无数不相干的看客
人人都只是在逆行于九曲回肠的上坡时
才发现每一个拐弯都竖立着警告：
前方危险，减速慢行
而他们已经坐进了橇车上了跑道
两边引人注目的风景低于只存在于瞬间，没有定格，他们也不可能专注，
甚至连对视也只存在于记忆
那时托马斯盯着特丽莎沿着走廊穿过桌椅拐进了一个酒吧的柜台后面
而外面的业余乐队还在一浪一浪地演奏
2007年6月5日
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Moonstruck
Moonstruck
Have not seen such a bewitching moon for quite a long time. She hangs over the western sky against the woolen white as if it were a topaz ball over a reddish lagoon of clouds. The red comes from the lights of the industrial district.
Moon-watching is supposed to be a Chinese cultural trope, but when it comes to be expected at certain occasions, it falls into a kind of apathetic convention. When the full moon is ethically interpreted as a symbol of (family) reunion, it can no longer hold (sexual) passion. Think of the 1987 comedy Moonstruck, and I might even claim that we Chinese are not prone to romantic provocation and we have lost the capacity of being lunatic. This loss may even be viewed as both a symptom of and a reason for our loss of appetite for poetry.
But of course, some kind of romantic gesture can be expected, even between long-wedded couple, when the man might spurt out in her ear that he'd like to rip her off to make love. Chinese full moon is full of cultural cliché that censors the erotic, and moon-watching may even be considered as a kind of cultural habitus among poets. Li Po provides a super example, but we should not forget that he was profoundly influenced by Taoism, to the extent that the moon might be a figure of The Great Mother to him.
June 1, 2007
月 色撩人
走近窗户，看到月亮美得惊心动魄。月亮浑圆了，有点柔和的金色，一片淡淡的云映衬着，犹如一块黄玉的球抛在本色羊毛的毯子上；而这片毯子下面是一条水道似的蓝天，然后便是一朵朵连接在一起粉红色云块，犹如珊瑚的群岛，甚至有一座半封闭的泻湖。那粉红好像来自地面上的灯火。
这样的月色已经好久没有看到了。
日常的赏月似乎总是被人为的节日所预定，然而这样的预期反而往往没有什么意味。当然，月圆之日，挽着爱人，从树杈间远看被割裂的圆轮，随口说着亲密的话，不管是否可以，都能够说真想早点回家做爱。这些都是很美好的感觉。
想到一部1987年的美国电影《月色撩人》Moonstruck，雪儿和尼古拉斯•凯奇主演的轻喜剧。这部电影的主角就是布鲁克林桥上方那个巨大的浅黄色月亮，它对应着意大利匹萨饼，当然，还有歌剧《波希米亚人》。这个主角的功能在于，满月可以催情，令人变得发疯般地浪漫，从而做出连自己都想象不到的举止。这便是西语中的lunatic“发疯”的渊源（lunatic和lunar“月亮的”同一个词根）。
中国的月亮本来还有一段爱情神话，但是这份爱情却越发缺少了激情，掺和进了太多的感伤。什么阴晴圆缺等等。当团圆变成了一种伦理的诉求，便牺牲了两性关系应有的浓烈，因此我们不会因为月亮而发疯了。我们不容易发疯，不容易对浪漫刺激起反应，甚至可以说我们对诗歌失去了胃口的病症和原因。
我最喜欢的一首与月亮有关的诗，却不是描写月亮本身的句子。李商隐的《嫦娥》中的那句：碧海青天夜夜心。从常见的有关月亮的比喻和用典写起，却最终落到了空灵的空无；这是李商隐的绝活之一。
我在这儿曾经发现过一个非常美妙的赏月地点。滨海湾对面的公园。如今，那么已经是一片建筑工地。进入那个公园里，坐到大桥下，左看可以隔河冷静观看这个城市最繁华的银行区，右看是海，月亮升起，偶尔有船驶过。
真正的赏月似乎已经不流行了，更不会有人专程跑出去赏月。而带上酒菜，邀三两友朋，月下闲话，那更是古人的行为。如今，或许还有敢于面对孤独的人，或者人在旅途，抛开电视或者网络，走进月光，抬头或者低首，想着远方或者自己。然而这样的时候，恐怕没有几个会有李白那样的潇洒与豪气：举杯邀月，对酒三人。曾经对一个洋人说过，李白的月亮实际上是一个女性，犹如西方概念中的The Great Mother原型母亲，李白是一个很受道家影响的浪漫诗人。
呵呵，当我打下标题：月色撩人。月与色之间留下了一个空白，于是月色乃是月与色的难以分解。不是么？李白说，今月曾经照古人。这也可算是感伤的一面吧？汉语文化中，月色只在于催而不在于清的催情作用恐怕还是很少的吧，倒是当代流行歌曲中唱的“都是月亮惹的祸”将月亮和性冲动联系到了一起呢。
Have not seen such a bewitching moon for quite a long time. She hangs over the western sky against the woolen white as if it were a topaz ball over a reddish lagoon of clouds. The red comes from the lights of the industrial district.
Moon-watching is supposed to be a Chinese cultural trope, but when it comes to be expected at certain occasions, it falls into a kind of apathetic convention. When the full moon is ethically interpreted as a symbol of (family) reunion, it can no longer hold (sexual) passion. Think of the 1987 comedy Moonstruck, and I might even claim that we Chinese are not prone to romantic provocation and we have lost the capacity of being lunatic. This loss may even be viewed as both a symptom of and a reason for our loss of appetite for poetry.
But of course, some kind of romantic gesture can be expected, even between long-wedded couple, when the man might spurt out in her ear that he'd like to rip her off to make love. Chinese full moon is full of cultural cliché that censors the erotic, and moon-watching may even be considered as a kind of cultural habitus among poets. Li Po provides a super example, but we should not forget that he was profoundly influenced by Taoism, to the extent that the moon might be a figure of The Great Mother to him.
June 1, 2007
月 色撩人
走近窗户，看到月亮美得惊心动魄。月亮浑圆了，有点柔和的金色，一片淡淡的云映衬着，犹如一块黄玉的球抛在本色羊毛的毯子上；而这片毯子下面是一条水道似的蓝天，然后便是一朵朵连接在一起粉红色云块，犹如珊瑚的群岛，甚至有一座半封闭的泻湖。那粉红好像来自地面上的灯火。
这样的月色已经好久没有看到了。
日常的赏月似乎总是被人为的节日所预定，然而这样的预期反而往往没有什么意味。当然，月圆之日，挽着爱人，从树杈间远看被割裂的圆轮，随口说着亲密的话，不管是否可以，都能够说真想早点回家做爱。这些都是很美好的感觉。
想到一部1987年的美国电影《月色撩人》Moonstruck，雪儿和尼古拉斯•凯奇主演的轻喜剧。这部电影的主角就是布鲁克林桥上方那个巨大的浅黄色月亮，它对应着意大利匹萨饼，当然，还有歌剧《波希米亚人》。这个主角的功能在于，满月可以催情，令人变得发疯般地浪漫，从而做出连自己都想象不到的举止。这便是西语中的lunatic“发疯”的渊源（lunatic和lunar“月亮的”同一个词根）。
中国的月亮本来还有一段爱情神话，但是这份爱情却越发缺少了激情，掺和进了太多的感伤。什么阴晴圆缺等等。当团圆变成了一种伦理的诉求，便牺牲了两性关系应有的浓烈，因此我们不会因为月亮而发疯了。我们不容易发疯，不容易对浪漫刺激起反应，甚至可以说我们对诗歌失去了胃口的病症和原因。
我最喜欢的一首与月亮有关的诗，却不是描写月亮本身的句子。李商隐的《嫦娥》中的那句：碧海青天夜夜心。从常见的有关月亮的比喻和用典写起，却最终落到了空灵的空无；这是李商隐的绝活之一。
我在这儿曾经发现过一个非常美妙的赏月地点。滨海湾对面的公园。如今，那么已经是一片建筑工地。进入那个公园里，坐到大桥下，左看可以隔河冷静观看这个城市最繁华的银行区，右看是海，月亮升起，偶尔有船驶过。
真正的赏月似乎已经不流行了，更不会有人专程跑出去赏月。而带上酒菜，邀三两友朋，月下闲话，那更是古人的行为。如今，或许还有敢于面对孤独的人，或者人在旅途，抛开电视或者网络，走进月光，抬头或者低首，想着远方或者自己。然而这样的时候，恐怕没有几个会有李白那样的潇洒与豪气：举杯邀月，对酒三人。曾经对一个洋人说过，李白的月亮实际上是一个女性，犹如西方概念中的The Great Mother原型母亲，李白是一个很受道家影响的浪漫诗人。
呵呵，当我打下标题：月色撩人。月与色之间留下了一个空白，于是月色乃是月与色的难以分解。不是么？李白说，今月曾经照古人。这也可算是感伤的一面吧？汉语文化中，月色只在于催而不在于清的催情作用恐怕还是很少的吧，倒是当代流行歌曲中唱的“都是月亮惹的祸”将月亮和性冲动联系到了一起呢。
Friday, September 25, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Writing
Writing
Writing, yes, it is a habit by default, like a sculpture, its eyeballs
Chiseled out, and its material texture seems able to change
Its rigidity, but the sun has always known the truth, the rain too;
Still, the sun does not care
Whether the surface will get hot or not, and smooth or not it may be,
The rain will fall down or dry up. Then, inevitably, a bird will fly past,
And the air does not bother to remember its flight. The bird, of course,
Really flies past, although this should not be anything to anything, especially
Not to the bird, for flying is its born way of existence, and it doesn’t prove
Anything. As for poetry, ah, writing it is a bad habit, literally;
We cannot fly
And still we are always fantasizing the ability,
Like a statue looking at its own shadow, thinking itself flying.
Sept. 24, 2009
写
写，是一种积习，是的，就像一座雕塑，眼球
被挖空，材料的质地似乎可以改变它的僵硬，
其实太阳一直知道，雨一直知道，
至于它的表面热不热，光滑与否，
太阳并不在乎，雨会流掉或晒干。
然后，必然会有一只鸟飞过去，空气
根本不屑于记得。当然，那只鸟真的飞过，
只是谁那不该把它当回事，尤其对那只鸟而言，
飞是它生来的生存方式，真的没什么。
而写诗，哈，想把诗写出来，那是一种恶习，
我们不会飞，
却一直总是在妄想着那样的能力，
犹如一座雕塑，看着影子，就自以为在飞。
2009年9月24日
Writing, yes, it is a habit by default, like a sculpture, its eyeballs
Chiseled out, and its material texture seems able to change
Its rigidity, but the sun has always known the truth, the rain too;
Still, the sun does not care
Whether the surface will get hot or not, and smooth or not it may be,
The rain will fall down or dry up. Then, inevitably, a bird will fly past,
And the air does not bother to remember its flight. The bird, of course,
Really flies past, although this should not be anything to anything, especially
Not to the bird, for flying is its born way of existence, and it doesn’t prove
Anything. As for poetry, ah, writing it is a bad habit, literally;
We cannot fly
And still we are always fantasizing the ability,
Like a statue looking at its own shadow, thinking itself flying.
Sept. 24, 2009
写
写，是一种积习，是的，就像一座雕塑，眼球
被挖空，材料的质地似乎可以改变它的僵硬，
其实太阳一直知道，雨一直知道，
至于它的表面热不热，光滑与否，
太阳并不在乎，雨会流掉或晒干。
然后，必然会有一只鸟飞过去，空气
根本不屑于记得。当然，那只鸟真的飞过，
只是谁那不该把它当回事，尤其对那只鸟而言，
飞是它生来的生存方式，真的没什么。
而写诗，哈，想把诗写出来，那是一种恶习，
我们不会飞，
却一直总是在妄想着那样的能力，
犹如一座雕塑，看着影子，就自以为在飞。
2009年9月24日
Qiao: The Next Page
Qiao: The Next Page
桥：下一页
The Next Page
by Qiao tr. Fan Jinghua
On the next page there are lemon trees you planted
On the next page I can touch the trees and close my eyes
On the next page birds fly away from the riverside reeds
On the next page bullets whizz by the ears of roses
On the next page there are purely white feathers
On the next page I open my eyes and see nothing but snowflakes
On the next page all the tiles shine on the roof
On the next page wooden windows creak all night long
On the next page there is rainwater sprawling everywhere
On the next page frogs jump to the other bank and knock grandma’s door
On the next page rice stalks stand like generals to fight sparrows in the field
On the next page anyone with a bowl in hand will cry like a shower
On the next page I sit on bamboos and weave you a winter clothe
On the next page I put coal to the stove and lemon into wine
On the next page I let loose my hair and bury my face in your cottonfield
On the next page I climb over you to welcome the winter
On the next page I turn over another page and turn over you
On the next page the Winter Solstice follows you and the Great Cold Day comes
On the next page lemon trees are covered with flowers
On the next page lemon trees are heavy with fruits
On the next page I shoulder a pair of buckets to the river
On the next page I wash off the dirt on the hem of my skirt
On the next page the riverside willow tells its long story
On the next page firewood is ready and dead trees lean against each other
On the next page you and I hold each other
On the next page you and I lie together
下一页
作者： 桥
下一页就可以看到你种的柠檬树
下一页摸摸这棵树就闭上眼睛
下一页鸟都飞离河边芦苇
下一页气枪子弹在玫瑰的耳边呼啸
下一页夹着纯洁的羽毛
下一页我就要睁开眼睛
下一页都是雪花
下一页
瓦片发亮，木窗整夜吱吱作响
下一页整页都是雨水
青蛙跳到河的对岸，敲老奶奶的门
下一页
稻草变成将军在田里大战麻雀
下一页端起碗就会泪如雨下
下一页坐在竹子上织冬衣
下一页
往炉里添炭，柠檬加入酒
下一页将头发放下
笑容埋在你的棉花地
下一页翻过你
下一页翻过你就是冬至，翻过冬至就是大寒
下一页柠檬树开花了
下一页柠檬树结果吧
下一页我挑上木桶走到河边
下一页我洗我衣角的泥土
下一页河边的杨柳在讲它的故事
下一页砍柴
下一页死亡的树都抱在一起
我和你抱在一起
桥：下一页
The Next Page
by Qiao tr. Fan Jinghua
On the next page there are lemon trees you planted
On the next page I can touch the trees and close my eyes
On the next page birds fly away from the riverside reeds
On the next page bullets whizz by the ears of roses
On the next page there are purely white feathers
On the next page I open my eyes and see nothing but snowflakes
On the next page all the tiles shine on the roof
On the next page wooden windows creak all night long
On the next page there is rainwater sprawling everywhere
On the next page frogs jump to the other bank and knock grandma’s door
On the next page rice stalks stand like generals to fight sparrows in the field
On the next page anyone with a bowl in hand will cry like a shower
On the next page I sit on bamboos and weave you a winter clothe
On the next page I put coal to the stove and lemon into wine
On the next page I let loose my hair and bury my face in your cottonfield
On the next page I climb over you to welcome the winter
On the next page I turn over another page and turn over you
On the next page the Winter Solstice follows you and the Great Cold Day comes
On the next page lemon trees are covered with flowers
On the next page lemon trees are heavy with fruits
On the next page I shoulder a pair of buckets to the river
On the next page I wash off the dirt on the hem of my skirt
On the next page the riverside willow tells its long story
On the next page firewood is ready and dead trees lean against each other
On the next page you and I hold each other
On the next page you and I lie together
下一页
作者： 桥
下一页就可以看到你种的柠檬树
下一页摸摸这棵树就闭上眼睛
下一页鸟都飞离河边芦苇
下一页气枪子弹在玫瑰的耳边呼啸
下一页夹着纯洁的羽毛
下一页我就要睁开眼睛
下一页都是雪花
下一页
瓦片发亮，木窗整夜吱吱作响
下一页整页都是雨水
青蛙跳到河的对岸，敲老奶奶的门
下一页
稻草变成将军在田里大战麻雀
下一页端起碗就会泪如雨下
下一页坐在竹子上织冬衣
下一页
往炉里添炭，柠檬加入酒
下一页将头发放下
笑容埋在你的棉花地
下一页翻过你
下一页翻过你就是冬至，翻过冬至就是大寒
下一页柠檬树开花了
下一页柠檬树结果吧
下一页我挑上木桶走到河边
下一页我洗我衣角的泥土
下一页河边的杨柳在讲它的故事
下一页砍柴
下一页死亡的树都抱在一起
我和你抱在一起
Plath: Words heard, by accident, over the phone
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 169
Words heard, by accident, over the phone
O mud, mud, how fluid!—
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.
Speak, speak! Who is it?
It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.
It is he who has achieved these syllables.
What are these words, these words?
They are plopping like mud.
O god, how shall I ever clean the phone table?
They are pressing out of the many-holed earpiece, they are looking for a listener.
Is he here?
Now the room is ahiss. The instrument
Withdraws its tentacle.
But the spawn percolate in my heart. They are fertile.
Muck funnel, muck funnel—
You are too big. They must take you back!
11 July 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第169首
意外听到电话上的只言片语
啊，淤泥，淤泥，多么溜滑！——
稠得像外国咖啡，带着粘乎乎的脉动。
说话呀，说话！你是谁？
那是内脏的脉动，消化物的情人。
正是他从牙缝中挤出这些音节。
这些字说的什么，说的什么？
它们像淤泥啪嗒啪嗒落下。
上帝啊，那电话台，我怎么还能擦得干净？
它们从听筒的许多小空中挤出来，它们在寻找一个听众。
他在这儿吗？
现在整个房间都嘶嘶有声，那只仪器
缩回了它的触角。
但它产的卵渗滤过了我的心。它们能繁殖。
污泥漏斗，污泥漏斗！——
你太大了。它们必须将你收回去！
1962年7月11日
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Faraway
FAN Jinghua: Faraway
得一忘二：《遥远》
Faraway
To tell the truth, I myself for most of the time do not believe
Faraway could come with compulsory hits of fingers on the keyboard.
And yet, here it is, before my eyes, like anything else, a mishit
Will get something different by a thousand miles, but how can I not admit—
It has a rhyme as if gravitational that all the weight of my body
And mind cannot rival its suck. The three different a’s, separated,
Are locked in here, and anyone who does see it and carry it
Close to her bosom or on his back pushes me further to the past.
This, I dedicate to you; anyway, it’s yours soon or later when it reaches there.
I am always already full of faraway here, and now it’s your turn.
September 23, 2009
遥远
其实大多数时候我自己就不信——遥远，
怎么可能只是手指自发敲击下的一个词？
也像任何东西吗，稍微错失或击错一个键，
就差以万里？可它在我眼前，我不得不承认，
它真的有一种韵，YY，犹如黑洞的引力，
我心的重量附上我的身，仍难敌它轻巧的吮吸。
此刻充满了遥远，而另一个看到它的人永远
滞后在遥远，将我的此刻贴近自己，弃我于过去。
这个就献给你吧，反正迟早它都会到你那儿；
我已经总是被遥远充满，也该你遥远了。
2009年9月23日
得一忘二：《遥远》
Faraway
To tell the truth, I myself for most of the time do not believe
Faraway could come with compulsory hits of fingers on the keyboard.
And yet, here it is, before my eyes, like anything else, a mishit
Will get something different by a thousand miles, but how can I not admit—
It has a rhyme as if gravitational that all the weight of my body
And mind cannot rival its suck. The three different a’s, separated,
Are locked in here, and anyone who does see it and carry it
Close to her bosom or on his back pushes me further to the past.
This, I dedicate to you; anyway, it’s yours soon or later when it reaches there.
I am always already full of faraway here, and now it’s your turn.
September 23, 2009
遥远
其实大多数时候我自己就不信——遥远，
怎么可能只是手指自发敲击下的一个词？
也像任何东西吗，稍微错失或击错一个键，
就差以万里？可它在我眼前，我不得不承认，
它真的有一种韵，YY，犹如黑洞的引力，
我心的重量附上我的身，仍难敌它轻巧的吮吸。
此刻充满了遥远，而另一个看到它的人永远
滞后在遥远，将我的此刻贴近自己，弃我于过去。
这个就献给你吧，反正迟早它都会到你那儿；
我已经总是被遥远充满，也该你遥远了。
2009年9月23日
Qiao: The Crops Are Blown Away
Qiao: The Crops Are Blown Away
桥《粮食都被风吹走了》
The Crops Are Blown Away
by Qiao tr. Fan Jinghua
Let’s go for a booze, to a booze-up
Come on, caterpillar
The cereals are blown away in the wind
There is wine left in the cellar
Let’s bend over the bar counter in this rat-hole
And exchange our summer with the rat
For a cup of sweet-potato liquor
We have to face its bad
And our fingers are interlocked in the dark
So I can feel your little thumb and it’s soft like an angel’s lip
Stumble me, caterpillar, stumble me
With your green color
The crops are blown away in the wind
Paradise is one meter underground
Let’s follow the cricket
And exchange our lamp with it for a piano
In the bleakest lot of grass let me play for you
The darkest tune in my body
I’ll play it like a shower of falling leaves
And play it so it may die away at the height of autumn
Come on, caterpillar, let’s go for a booze
I’ll fall like a bundle of straw
Let mice laugh at my rotting
Let’s exchange my patched bones with it for a clean table
You sit down
And I’ll wash your hands with the purest liquor
My ears will turn deaf to the wind
And I can see the rice growing taller and taller after the summer
Come on, caterpillar
Plant me in the paddy field
粮食都被风吹走了
作者：桥
让我们去喝酒吧喝酒吧
虫子
粮食都被风吹走了
地窑里只剩下酒
让我们趴在那只老鼠肮脏的吧台上
用我们的夏天跟它交换
一小杯地瓜烧
面对它的卑鄙
我们把手指勾在一起
在黑暗处你的小姆指象天使的嘴唇一样柔软
你用你的绿色拌倒我吧
虫子
粮食都被风吹走了
天堂在地下一米
跟着那只蟋蟀
我们用灯跟它交换钢琴
在荒凉的草丛里让我为你弹奏我身体里最黑暗的曲子
把它弹成枫树叶
让它在秋天的最高处死去
来吧虫子，来吧我们喝酒
我象稻草那样倒下
老鼠在笑我腐烂
用我的补丁骨头跟它交换一张干净的桌子吧
你坐着
我用最纯洁的酒为你洗手
我听不到风吹的声音了
我就要看到我们种了一个夏天的稻子
来吧虫子
把我种下去
桥《粮食都被风吹走了》
The Crops Are Blown Away
by Qiao tr. Fan Jinghua
Let’s go for a booze, to a booze-up
Come on, caterpillar
The cereals are blown away in the wind
There is wine left in the cellar
Let’s bend over the bar counter in this rat-hole
And exchange our summer with the rat
For a cup of sweet-potato liquor
We have to face its bad
And our fingers are interlocked in the dark
So I can feel your little thumb and it’s soft like an angel’s lip
Stumble me, caterpillar, stumble me
With your green color
The crops are blown away in the wind
Paradise is one meter underground
Let’s follow the cricket
And exchange our lamp with it for a piano
In the bleakest lot of grass let me play for you
The darkest tune in my body
I’ll play it like a shower of falling leaves
And play it so it may die away at the height of autumn
Come on, caterpillar, let’s go for a booze
I’ll fall like a bundle of straw
Let mice laugh at my rotting
Let’s exchange my patched bones with it for a clean table
You sit down
And I’ll wash your hands with the purest liquor
My ears will turn deaf to the wind
And I can see the rice growing taller and taller after the summer
Come on, caterpillar
Plant me in the paddy field
粮食都被风吹走了
作者：桥
让我们去喝酒吧喝酒吧
虫子
粮食都被风吹走了
地窑里只剩下酒
让我们趴在那只老鼠肮脏的吧台上
用我们的夏天跟它交换
一小杯地瓜烧
面对它的卑鄙
我们把手指勾在一起
在黑暗处你的小姆指象天使的嘴唇一样柔软
你用你的绿色拌倒我吧
虫子
粮食都被风吹走了
天堂在地下一米
跟着那只蟋蟀
我们用灯跟它交换钢琴
在荒凉的草丛里让我为你弹奏我身体里最黑暗的曲子
把它弹成枫树叶
让它在秋天的最高处死去
来吧虫子，来吧我们喝酒
我象稻草那样倒下
老鼠在笑我腐烂
用我的补丁骨头跟它交换一张干净的桌子吧
你坐着
我用最纯洁的酒为你洗手
我听不到风吹的声音了
我就要看到我们种了一个夏天的稻子
来吧虫子
把我种下去
Monday, September 21, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Love Song for a Transparent One
Love Song for a Transparent One
What bears you down is like a fat earthworm
Under a purslane
Writhing
While the last sun sinks whole into the unknown
Before it explodes at an arrow
This is the penultimate illusion men must rely to survive another day
Now night has fallen, Transparent Darling, come and lie down by my side
Remember to whisper some nonsense
So I can feel your existence
This world is so dark
September 21, 2009
给一个透明人的情歌
那样的下坠感像一条肥蚯蚓
在一棵马齿苋的遮挡下
拱动
而最后一颗太阳在被射裂之前
完整地坠入天边之外
这是人类必须依赖的幻象
今夜，和我同寝吧
亲爱的透明人，你要低语一些废话
让我循声感到你的存在
世界这么黑
2009年9月21日
A Note:
In Chinese mythology, there were at a time ten suns in the sky, and the earth was in severe drought. Then, a man called Yi (or Houyi, the husband of Moon Goddess Chang'e) tried to shoot them down to save the people. After nine were shot down, the tenth hid itself under a purslane. For gratitude, the sun promised the purslane that no matter how hot the season the purslane would never be scorched. That is why the purslace, even after it is uprooted, will take a long long time to dry. This is a folklore my mother used to tell me when we were drying the purslane for autumn and winter (when there would be no green vegetable on our table). For a little more "orthodox" Chinese mythology about Houyi, refer to the Wiki for "Houyi" at (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Houyi).
What bears you down is like a fat earthworm
Under a purslane
Writhing
While the last sun sinks whole into the unknown
Before it explodes at an arrow
This is the penultimate illusion men must rely to survive another day
Now night has fallen, Transparent Darling, come and lie down by my side
Remember to whisper some nonsense
So I can feel your existence
This world is so dark
September 21, 2009
给一个透明人的情歌
那样的下坠感像一条肥蚯蚓
在一棵马齿苋的遮挡下
拱动
而最后一颗太阳在被射裂之前
完整地坠入天边之外
这是人类必须依赖的幻象
今夜，和我同寝吧
亲爱的透明人，你要低语一些废话
让我循声感到你的存在
世界这么黑
2009年9月21日
A Note:
In Chinese mythology, there were at a time ten suns in the sky, and the earth was in severe drought. Then, a man called Yi (or Houyi, the husband of Moon Goddess Chang'e) tried to shoot them down to save the people. After nine were shot down, the tenth hid itself under a purslane. For gratitude, the sun promised the purslane that no matter how hot the season the purslane would never be scorched. That is why the purslace, even after it is uprooted, will take a long long time to dry. This is a folklore my mother used to tell me when we were drying the purslane for autumn and winter (when there would be no green vegetable on our table). For a little more "orthodox" Chinese mythology about Houyi, refer to the Wiki for "Houyi" at (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Houyi).
Plath: Poppies in July
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 170
Poppies in July
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!
There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep!--
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colorless. Colorless.
20 July 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第170首
七月的罂粟花
小小的罂粟花，地狱的小火舌，
你于人无害？
你闪烁。我不能触摸。
我将双手置于火舌间。没烫着手。
看着你，我感到心力交瘁，
你如此闪烁，多皱而鲜红，像某张嘴的皮。
刚刚流过血的嘴。
血呼呼的小裙子！
到处是我不能触及的气味。
你的鸦片酊哪去了，那些催吐的荚果？
但愿我能流血，或者入睡！——
但愿我的嘴能像你那样委身于伤口！
要么，你的烈酒渗进我，在这玻璃荚果中，
一直变味、走气。
但没有颜色。没有颜色。
1962年7月20日
No. 170
Poppies in July
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!
There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep!--
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colorless. Colorless.
20 July 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第170首
七月的罂粟花
小小的罂粟花，地狱的小火舌，
你于人无害？
你闪烁。我不能触摸。
我将双手置于火舌间。没烫着手。
看着你，我感到心力交瘁，
你如此闪烁，多皱而鲜红，像某张嘴的皮。
刚刚流过血的嘴。
血呼呼的小裙子！
到处是我不能触及的气味。
你的鸦片酊哪去了，那些催吐的荚果？
但愿我能流血，或者入睡！——
但愿我的嘴能像你那样委身于伤口！
要么，你的烈酒渗进我，在这玻璃荚果中，
一直变味、走气。
但没有颜色。没有颜色。
1962年7月20日
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Once
Once
See her sitting into a lotus on the cooling pad, back against a dado,
Shaking loose her hair and expression, the blouse like a vestment,
The jar of memory she takes in both hands and tilts, and the past
Threading out one by one, two by two, like the cascade of milk
With a varying curve and shape, now narrow ans now broad.
Time is so sensual, and yet time still keeps its own pace somewhere
Along the low skyline on the distant sea, all colors whitening.
So many that she has never let out before are now going eternal,
And her breath is a butterfly that makes us fluttering and mute.
This moment is a snowy afternoon downy in the crystal ball,
The shaft of sunlight holds in the mid-air,, finding the lake and lawn
Tucked in someone’s mind where she sits like a lotus on an island.
What is it that is leaving one soul, washing past another’s body?
He is leaving too. Has she emptied him out or redisplaying him in the sun?
Sept. 18, 2009
曾经
看她盘起腿坐在垫子上，背靠着墙
将表情与衣裳松开，轻轻地
捧起那装着旧事的罐子，倾斜
于是流线的小瀑布从窄变宽又从宽变窄
时间的液体流出视觉的缓急，而时间依然
从容如低矮的云，色彩在蜕化
这么多从没人知道的，可以永恒了
而她的呼吸犹如蝴蝶令人翩然而无声
充满此刻的静止在水晶球中下雪
一束阳光正透过云层投下来
而承接它的湖水与草地只存在于记忆
她盘腿坐在那垫子上，如一只孤岛
那是什么正在离开一个人，流经另一个、洗刷着
那一个正离开自己，是被她倒出、被她重新看见吗
2009年9月18日
See her sitting into a lotus on the cooling pad, back against a dado,
Shaking loose her hair and expression, the blouse like a vestment,
The jar of memory she takes in both hands and tilts, and the past
Threading out one by one, two by two, like the cascade of milk
With a varying curve and shape, now narrow ans now broad.
Time is so sensual, and yet time still keeps its own pace somewhere
Along the low skyline on the distant sea, all colors whitening.
So many that she has never let out before are now going eternal,
And her breath is a butterfly that makes us fluttering and mute.
This moment is a snowy afternoon downy in the crystal ball,
The shaft of sunlight holds in the mid-air,, finding the lake and lawn
Tucked in someone’s mind where she sits like a lotus on an island.
What is it that is leaving one soul, washing past another’s body?
He is leaving too. Has she emptied him out or redisplaying him in the sun?
Sept. 18, 2009
曾经
看她盘起腿坐在垫子上，背靠着墙
将表情与衣裳松开，轻轻地
捧起那装着旧事的罐子，倾斜
于是流线的小瀑布从窄变宽又从宽变窄
时间的液体流出视觉的缓急，而时间依然
从容如低矮的云，色彩在蜕化
这么多从没人知道的，可以永恒了
而她的呼吸犹如蝴蝶令人翩然而无声
充满此刻的静止在水晶球中下雪
一束阳光正透过云层投下来
而承接它的湖水与草地只存在于记忆
她盘腿坐在那垫子上，如一只孤岛
那是什么正在离开一个人，流经另一个、洗刷着
那一个正离开自己，是被她倒出、被她重新看见吗
2009年9月18日
Li Po: To a Faraway One
Li Bai: To a Faraway One (No.6 of 11)
Darkening clouds screen off the Chu Water,
Swivelling weeds scatter on the Wei River.
Missing you day and night witout end,
Swaying and expanding like a heaving tide.
The current flows eastward to the sea,
There is no return for anyone to revisit.
Only a dewdrop of tear can be sent
To the faraway one who is a flower.
李白： 《寄远 (之六)》
阴云隔楚水，转蓬落渭河。
相思无日夜，浩荡若流波。
流波向海去，欲见终无因。
遥将一点泪，远寄如花人。
In fact, Li Bai’s love poems were not particularly good, not as good as his friendship poems. But he surprisingly wrote some lines which were considered very “blunt” according to the classical decorum. His writing of women was usually very sensual and specific, sometimes like The Song of Solomon in the Bible. It can be said that women in Li Bai’s poems were of flesh rather than of soul, which was perhaps the result of his Daoist ideal about women. For him, the relation with a woman had to be physical. In another poem (No.7 of the 11 poems in this suite), he wrote “How to steal a meeting/ And off with the candle and clothing”(何由一相见，灭烛解罗衣) while in yet another poem “Song About A Meeting”(相逢行) he wrote that “A meeting with no chances for intimacies/ Is no better than no meeting at all” (相见不得亲，不如不相见).
Darkening clouds screen off the Chu Water,
Swivelling weeds scatter on the Wei River.
Missing you day and night witout end,
Swaying and expanding like a heaving tide.
The current flows eastward to the sea,
There is no return for anyone to revisit.
Only a dewdrop of tear can be sent
To the faraway one who is a flower.
李白： 《寄远 (之六)》
阴云隔楚水，转蓬落渭河。
相思无日夜，浩荡若流波。
流波向海去，欲见终无因。
遥将一点泪，远寄如花人。
In fact, Li Bai’s love poems were not particularly good, not as good as his friendship poems. But he surprisingly wrote some lines which were considered very “blunt” according to the classical decorum. His writing of women was usually very sensual and specific, sometimes like The Song of Solomon in the Bible. It can be said that women in Li Bai’s poems were of flesh rather than of soul, which was perhaps the result of his Daoist ideal about women. For him, the relation with a woman had to be physical. In another poem (No.7 of the 11 poems in this suite), he wrote “How to steal a meeting/ And off with the candle and clothing”(何由一相见，灭烛解罗衣) while in yet another poem “Song About A Meeting”(相逢行) he wrote that “A meeting with no chances for intimacies/ Is no better than no meeting at all” (相见不得亲，不如不相见).
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Li Yiliang: A Dream of Father
A Dream of Father
Li Yiliang (1966-) tr. Fan Jinghua
I heard clearly Father was calling me.
A sudden surprise and terror.
I opened the door at the call, and I woke up
— Another dream.
How long has he left?
I have not thought of him, or rather,
As a matter of fact, I do not miss him.
He is very old now, a lonely man.
Has he thought of me? He chooses
A day like this, coming along a dream—
This would be easier. Pity
We did not meet, tonight
After the dream was broken, by the end
Of all the troubled years, I asked myself—
What strained turn of fate made me feel
That the I he called had left me and gone away;
Also made me fear of seeing
The honest and saddening look in his eyes.
All my younger inspirations that set me off,
All my almighty ambitions—
To make Father’s face gleam with pride of me,
For my leading a life unlike his.
I shattered his expectation.
I cannot return to the beginning days.
1993
Li Yiliang (1966-) tr. Fan Jinghua
I heard clearly Father was calling me.
A sudden surprise and terror.
I opened the door at the call, and I woke up
— Another dream.
How long has he left?
I have not thought of him, or rather,
As a matter of fact, I do not miss him.
He is very old now, a lonely man.
Has he thought of me? He chooses
A day like this, coming along a dream—
This would be easier. Pity
We did not meet, tonight
After the dream was broken, by the end
Of all the troubled years, I asked myself—
What strained turn of fate made me feel
That the I he called had left me and gone away;
Also made me fear of seeing
The honest and saddening look in his eyes.
All my younger inspirations that set me off,
All my almighty ambitions—
To make Father’s face gleam with pride of me,
For my leading a life unlike his.
I shattered his expectation.
I cannot return to the beginning days.
1993
梦见父亲
李以亮
我听得真切：父亲叫我。
刹那间惊奇又恐惧。
我应声开门，于是我醒来。
——又一个梦。
离开父亲已经多久？
我不想他，或者说，
实际上，我并没有想他。
他已经很老，是个孤独的人。
是父亲想起了我？他选择
这个日子，从梦中走来——
这就容易得多。然而
我们没有见面，今夜
在梦醒之后，在所有
烦恼岁月的末端，我自问——
是什么命运的乖张使我感到
他所呼唤的我已离我远去；
又使我这么害怕见到
他那诚实、伤心的眼神。
我全部赖以出发的初衷啊，
我所有不可一世的雄心——
是让父亲以我感到满面荣光，
有别于他的一生。
我让他伤心。
我回不到开始的日子。
1993
Li Yiliang was born in 1966, a few months later than me, and we are of the same age. What his dream about Father (to meet Father's expectation) is perhaps both an ideal and a burden for the people at that time. The original title of the poem should be literally translated as "(I have) Dreamt of Father."
Plath: Burning the Letters
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 171
Burning the Letters
I made a fire; being tired
Of the white fists of old
Letters and their death rattle
When I came too close to the wastebasket.
What did they know that I didn't?
Grain by grain, they unrolled
Sands where a dream of clear water
Grinned like a getaway car.
I am not subtle
Love, love, and well, I was tired
Of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack
Holding in its hate
Dully, under a pack of men in red jackets,
And the eyes and times of the postmarks.
This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless:
A glass case
My fingers would enter although
They melt and sag, they are told
Do not touch.
And here is an end to the writing,
The spry hooks that bend and cringe, and the smiles, the smiles.
And at least it will be a good place now, the attic.
At least I won't be strung just under the surface,
Dumb fish
With one tin eye,
Watching for glints,
Riding my Arctic
Between this wish and that wish.
So I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress.
They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl,
They console me—
Rising and flying, but blinded.
They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels
Only they have nothing to say to anybody.
I have seen to that.
With the butt of a rake
I flake up papers that breathe like people,
I fan them out
Between the yellow lettuces and the German cabbage
Involved in its weird blue dreams,
Involved as a foetus.
And a name with black edges
Wilts at my foot,
Sinuous orchis
In a nest of root-hairs and boredom—
Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals!
Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing.
My veins glow like trees.
The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like—
A red burst and a cry
That splits from its ripped bag and does not stop
With the dead eye
And the stuffed expression, but goes on
Dyeing the air,
Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water
What immortality is. That it is immortal.
13 August 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第171首
焚信
我生了火；因为厌倦
旧情书的白拳头
以及它们死亡唠叨，
我离废纸篓太近了。
我不这样它们能知道什么？
一颗接一颗，它们展开
沙粒，本来那儿有碧水似的梦
咧着嘴笑，像溃逃的汽车。
我并不机巧，
爱啊，爱，好吧，我厌倦了
纸箱，水泥色，或者卑鄙的一摞
一腔愤恨，
呆呆地，屏息守在一帮红夹克男人下面，
邮戳的眼睛和日期。
这火舌可能会轻舔慢吞，但不是慈悲：
一只玻璃盒，
我的手指可以伸进去，不过
它们已熔化，松塌，已被告知
“不可触摸”。
这儿，信的终点，
这些欢快的钩子曲意奉承，粲然微笑，微笑。
起码，那是个不错的地方，小阁楼。
起码，我不会被从表皮下串起来，
哑巴的鱼
有一只铁皮眼，
看着火光，
驶过我那介于
这个愿望与那个愿望之间的北极圈。
所以我穿着居家便服，搅起这些碳鸟。
它们比我那些无形的猫头鹰来得漂亮，
能安慰我——
升腾且飞翔，但已经瞎了。
它们会鼓翼而去，黑黑的、闪着光，会化作煤天使，
只是它们没有话要说给任何人。
这一点我已做到。
用耙子的牙齿
扬起片片像活人一样呼吸的薄纸，
将它们挥散，
落入黄色生菜与德国包菜之间，
卷进这些菜的蓝色怪梦，
像一只胚胎卷入其中。
一个带着黑边的名字
在我脚下枯萎，
蛇行兰花，
长在厌倦与根须绒毛的巢穴中——
苍白的眼睛，黑漆合成革的喉音！
温雨油润我的头发，扑灭不了任何东西。
我的脉管如树木生长。
这些狗在撕裂一只狐狸。大概也就如此吧——
一次红色的爆裂，一声惨叫，
那叫声从撕开的皮囊中尖嚣而起，不因为
那只死眼睛
以及塞满填料的表情而停止，而是进一步
映染空气，
告诉云朵的微粒、树叶以及流水，
什么叫做不朽。这才是不朽。
1962 年8月13日
No. 171
Burning the Letters
I made a fire; being tired
Of the white fists of old
Letters and their death rattle
When I came too close to the wastebasket.
What did they know that I didn't?
Grain by grain, they unrolled
Sands where a dream of clear water
Grinned like a getaway car.
I am not subtle
Love, love, and well, I was tired
Of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack
Holding in its hate
Dully, under a pack of men in red jackets,
And the eyes and times of the postmarks.
This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless:
A glass case
My fingers would enter although
They melt and sag, they are told
Do not touch.
And here is an end to the writing,
The spry hooks that bend and cringe, and the smiles, the smiles.
And at least it will be a good place now, the attic.
At least I won't be strung just under the surface,
Dumb fish
With one tin eye,
Watching for glints,
Riding my Arctic
Between this wish and that wish.
So I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress.
They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl,
They console me—
Rising and flying, but blinded.
They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels
Only they have nothing to say to anybody.
I have seen to that.
With the butt of a rake
I flake up papers that breathe like people,
I fan them out
Between the yellow lettuces and the German cabbage
Involved in its weird blue dreams,
Involved as a foetus.
And a name with black edges
Wilts at my foot,
Sinuous orchis
In a nest of root-hairs and boredom—
Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals!
Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing.
My veins glow like trees.
The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like—
A red burst and a cry
That splits from its ripped bag and does not stop
With the dead eye
And the stuffed expression, but goes on
Dyeing the air,
Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water
What immortality is. That it is immortal.
13 August 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第171首
焚信
我生了火；因为厌倦
旧情书的白拳头
以及它们死亡唠叨，
我离废纸篓太近了。
我不这样它们能知道什么？
一颗接一颗，它们展开
沙粒，本来那儿有碧水似的梦
咧着嘴笑，像溃逃的汽车。
我并不机巧，
爱啊，爱，好吧，我厌倦了
纸箱，水泥色，或者卑鄙的一摞
一腔愤恨，
呆呆地，屏息守在一帮红夹克男人下面，
邮戳的眼睛和日期。
这火舌可能会轻舔慢吞，但不是慈悲：
一只玻璃盒，
我的手指可以伸进去，不过
它们已熔化，松塌，已被告知
“不可触摸”。
这儿，信的终点，
这些欢快的钩子曲意奉承，粲然微笑，微笑。
起码，那是个不错的地方，小阁楼。
起码，我不会被从表皮下串起来，
哑巴的鱼
有一只铁皮眼，
看着火光，
驶过我那介于
这个愿望与那个愿望之间的北极圈。
所以我穿着居家便服，搅起这些碳鸟。
它们比我那些无形的猫头鹰来得漂亮，
能安慰我——
升腾且飞翔，但已经瞎了。
它们会鼓翼而去，黑黑的、闪着光，会化作煤天使，
只是它们没有话要说给任何人。
这一点我已做到。
用耙子的牙齿
扬起片片像活人一样呼吸的薄纸，
将它们挥散，
落入黄色生菜与德国包菜之间，
卷进这些菜的蓝色怪梦，
像一只胚胎卷入其中。
一个带着黑边的名字
在我脚下枯萎，
蛇行兰花，
长在厌倦与根须绒毛的巢穴中——
苍白的眼睛，黑漆合成革的喉音！
温雨油润我的头发，扑灭不了任何东西。
我的脉管如树木生长。
这些狗在撕裂一只狐狸。大概也就如此吧——
一次红色的爆裂，一声惨叫，
那叫声从撕开的皮囊中尖嚣而起，不因为
那只死眼睛
以及塞满填料的表情而停止，而是进一步
映染空气，
告诉云朵的微粒、树叶以及流水，
什么叫做不朽。这才是不朽。
1962 年8月13日
Friday, September 18, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Dawn
Dawn
This word does not evoke a human world with all its delightful sounds,
And lips cannot open to speak out the muffling darkness;
They are not supposed to.
Nightmares only take very little sleeping time, and REM does not generate electricity;
For a great majority, deep breathing is a bare necessity.
Darkness flows in and out through the fissure between teeth, like bad breath,
And no one will make love before gargling alone in front of a mirror, a rape excepted.
This is a moment when the impending east becomes a sick wild beast,
Resigned to a motionless life without live preys.
September 18, 2009
黎明
这个词并不唤起一个人性的世界及其令人欣慰的噪音，
嘴唇不能打开说那消音的黑暗；
原本不该如此。
噩梦只占有少量睡眠，眼球高速运动并不能发电；
对大多数人而言，深呼吸是绝不可少的必要。
黑暗，自己从牙缝流进流出，犹如口气，
没有人在漱口前做爱，除非……。
这个时刻，逼近的东方已变成一只病兽，
屈从于一种静止的生命，没有鲜活的猎物。
2009年9月18日
This word does not evoke a human world with all its delightful sounds,
And lips cannot open to speak out the muffling darkness;
They are not supposed to.
Nightmares only take very little sleeping time, and REM does not generate electricity;
For a great majority, deep breathing is a bare necessity.
Darkness flows in and out through the fissure between teeth, like bad breath,
And no one will make love before gargling alone in front of a mirror, a rape excepted.
This is a moment when the impending east becomes a sick wild beast,
Resigned to a motionless life without live preys.
September 18, 2009
黎明
这个词并不唤起一个人性的世界及其令人欣慰的噪音，
嘴唇不能打开说那消音的黑暗；
原本不该如此。
噩梦只占有少量睡眠，眼球高速运动并不能发电；
对大多数人而言，深呼吸是绝不可少的必要。
黑暗，自己从牙缝流进流出，犹如口气，
没有人在漱口前做爱，除非……。
这个时刻，逼近的东方已变成一只病兽，
屈从于一种静止的生命，没有鲜活的猎物。
2009年9月18日
Fan Jinghua: Cool Warmth
Cool Warmth
The rain that drizzles after the noon wets everything into the nightfall, and eventually it seems to be dried by the sizzling lights everywhere. So the moon swags outside the window through a thin branched tree, as if it is taking the same post to fit into my memory of it.
It pleases me, on purpose, perhaps. Anyway, I am a little moved, so I go out to a nearby supermarket, for some greens, or a bunch of ordinary flowers or two.
The road face is juicy with some sparkles. The sky is deep blue tinged with black. Clouds write in huge strokes, and it is an abstract piece of abstract art, or calligraphy of foreign maybe antique language unknown to me. It is self-composed, or even a little detached, or it chooses to be distant, not aloof, merely for the sake of solitude so its stance means.
I walk slowly, and gradually my steps turn into that of a mandarin strolling in the imperial garden. Everything in the universe slows down and surrounding noises lower their pitch like a galloping horse in a movie is played out in slow motion with the frame stretched out. Things take longer space in time. My sense of touch becomes cooler, so everything I see appears warmer.
When I see the little square outside the supermarket, with a scattering of cars and vans, a summer has gone when I have loved several women.
Sept. 17, 2009
凉凉的暖意
午后开始的雨一直滴到黄昏，终于似乎被灯火蒸干了。于是，月亮又斜斜地挂在窗子外，在枝条稀疏的树外，还是那样的位置，似乎这样才会回到我的记忆中。
它讨我喜欢，也许是有心的。我有点感动，于是出门去附近的一个超市，买蔬菜，或者一两把普通的鲜花。
路面清新，有汁，还有点点闪光。天空蓝得有点黛色。云，像大墨笔拖出去的笔锋，天空是一幅抽象画，或书法，而那语言是我不懂的或者古老的文字。它有一种镇定沉着，甚至有点冷淡，或者它故意如此，疏远但并非傲气凌人，也许仅仅是为了独处一隅，需要以这样的姿态显示距离感。
我慢慢地走着，走着走着自己走出了方步，犹如满大人在皇家园苑里漫步。天下的一切都慢了下来，四周的噪音闷了，好像电影中的奔马被播放成慢镜头，而帧幅又被拉长了。一切都在时间中占有了更长的空间。我的触觉冷了下来，于是我看到的一切都显得温暖。
当我看到超市外的小广场上散落着汽车和小货车时，一个夏天已经过去了，而我在那个夏天爱过好几个女人。
英文由2007年11月26日原作演绎，此文从译文改写
The rain that drizzles after the noon wets everything into the nightfall, and eventually it seems to be dried by the sizzling lights everywhere. So the moon swags outside the window through a thin branched tree, as if it is taking the same post to fit into my memory of it.
It pleases me, on purpose, perhaps. Anyway, I am a little moved, so I go out to a nearby supermarket, for some greens, or a bunch of ordinary flowers or two.
The road face is juicy with some sparkles. The sky is deep blue tinged with black. Clouds write in huge strokes, and it is an abstract piece of abstract art, or calligraphy of foreign maybe antique language unknown to me. It is self-composed, or even a little detached, or it chooses to be distant, not aloof, merely for the sake of solitude so its stance means.
I walk slowly, and gradually my steps turn into that of a mandarin strolling in the imperial garden. Everything in the universe slows down and surrounding noises lower their pitch like a galloping horse in a movie is played out in slow motion with the frame stretched out. Things take longer space in time. My sense of touch becomes cooler, so everything I see appears warmer.
When I see the little square outside the supermarket, with a scattering of cars and vans, a summer has gone when I have loved several women.
Sept. 17, 2009
凉凉的暖意
午后开始的雨一直滴到黄昏，终于似乎被灯火蒸干了。于是，月亮又斜斜地挂在窗子外，在枝条稀疏的树外，还是那样的位置，似乎这样才会回到我的记忆中。
它讨我喜欢，也许是有心的。我有点感动，于是出门去附近的一个超市，买蔬菜，或者一两把普通的鲜花。
路面清新，有汁，还有点点闪光。天空蓝得有点黛色。云，像大墨笔拖出去的笔锋，天空是一幅抽象画，或书法，而那语言是我不懂的或者古老的文字。它有一种镇定沉着，甚至有点冷淡，或者它故意如此，疏远但并非傲气凌人，也许仅仅是为了独处一隅，需要以这样的姿态显示距离感。
我慢慢地走着，走着走着自己走出了方步，犹如满大人在皇家园苑里漫步。天下的一切都慢了下来，四周的噪音闷了，好像电影中的奔马被播放成慢镜头，而帧幅又被拉长了。一切都在时间中占有了更长的空间。我的触觉冷了下来，于是我看到的一切都显得温暖。
当我看到超市外的小广场上散落着汽车和小货车时，一个夏天已经过去了，而我在那个夏天爱过好几个女人。
英文由2007年11月26日原作演绎，此文从译文改写
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Qiao: Falling into a Good Guy
Qiao: Falling into a Good Guy
桥：《和好人恋爱 》
Falling into a Good Guy
by Qiao [Bridge] tr. Fan Jinghua
Three dwarf boxwood trees, they are running backward
It is getting cold, soon
Cold current is rolling southward
I live in a cave
A good guy takes hold of my hand, and he says: Let’s fall into love
Ah, the sun rises from the west
Ah, the sun rises from the east
Three dwarf boxwood trees, they are running backward
The rain chases the leaves
There is no moon in this cave
A good guy gropes in and takes hold of my hand
And he says: Let’s fall into love
He turns away and no moon is found
He sticks his tongue out
This is a good guy I can fall into
He stands in the dark and I cannot see his face
Cotton grows between us
So between so close
和好人恋爱
原作：桥
三根小黄杨木向后跑
天气就要转凉
有冷空气南下
我住在洞里
一个好人牵我的手，他说：和我恋爱吧
太阳从西面出来
太阳从东面出来
三根小黄杨木向后奔跑
雨追着树叶
洞里从来没有月亮
一个好人摸黑走了进来，他握住我的手
他说：和我恋爱吧，转过身去
转过身去还是没有月亮
他吐了吐舌头
一个好人
他站在黑暗里我没有看见他的脸
有棉花在我们中间生长
那么近
桥：《和好人恋爱 》
Falling into a Good Guy
by Qiao [Bridge] tr. Fan Jinghua
Three dwarf boxwood trees, they are running backward
It is getting cold, soon
Cold current is rolling southward
I live in a cave
A good guy takes hold of my hand, and he says: Let’s fall into love
Ah, the sun rises from the west
Ah, the sun rises from the east
Three dwarf boxwood trees, they are running backward
The rain chases the leaves
There is no moon in this cave
A good guy gropes in and takes hold of my hand
And he says: Let’s fall into love
He turns away and no moon is found
He sticks his tongue out
This is a good guy I can fall into
He stands in the dark and I cannot see his face
Cotton grows between us
So between so close
和好人恋爱
原作：桥
三根小黄杨木向后跑
天气就要转凉
有冷空气南下
我住在洞里
一个好人牵我的手，他说：和我恋爱吧
太阳从西面出来
太阳从东面出来
三根小黄杨木向后奔跑
雨追着树叶
洞里从来没有月亮
一个好人摸黑走了进来，他握住我的手
他说：和我恋爱吧，转过身去
转过身去还是没有月亮
他吐了吐舌头
一个好人
他站在黑暗里我没有看见他的脸
有棉花在我们中间生长
那么近
Plath: For a Fatherless Son
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 172
For a Fatherless Son
You will be aware of an absence, presently,
Growing beside you, like a tree,
A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree—
Balding, gelded by lightning—an illusion,
And a sky like a pig's backside, an utter lack of attention.
But right now you are dumb.
And I love your stupidity,
The blind mirror of it. I look in
And find no face but my own, and you think that's funny.
It is good for me
To have you grab my nose, a ladder rung.
One day you may touch what's wrong
The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush.
Till then your smiles are found money.
26 September 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第172首
致没父亲的儿子
很快，你将感到一种缺失，
在你身边生长，像一棵树，
一棵死树，退了色，一棵澳洲胶树——
正在秃顶，被闪电阉了——一种幻像，
一顷天空，如猪的后腰背，注意力彻底丧失。
但你现在还是哑巴。
而我爱你的傻气，
它的盲镜。我照了照，
没发现别的脸，只有我自己，而你觉得好玩。
这对我有益，
能有你来抓我的鼻子，一把梯子的横档。
终有一天，你会摸到出差错的东西，
小脑壳，破碎的蓝色山丘，令人惶恐的沉寂。
到那时，你的微笑将是失而复得的钱财。
1962年9月26日
No. 172
For a Fatherless Son
You will be aware of an absence, presently,
Growing beside you, like a tree,
A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree—
Balding, gelded by lightning—an illusion,
And a sky like a pig's backside, an utter lack of attention.
But right now you are dumb.
And I love your stupidity,
The blind mirror of it. I look in
And find no face but my own, and you think that's funny.
It is good for me
To have you grab my nose, a ladder rung.
One day you may touch what's wrong
The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush.
Till then your smiles are found money.
26 September 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第172首
致没父亲的儿子
很快，你将感到一种缺失，
在你身边生长，像一棵树，
一棵死树，退了色，一棵澳洲胶树——
正在秃顶，被闪电阉了——一种幻像，
一顷天空，如猪的后腰背，注意力彻底丧失。
但你现在还是哑巴。
而我爱你的傻气，
它的盲镜。我照了照，
没发现别的脸，只有我自己，而你觉得好玩。
这对我有益，
能有你来抓我的鼻子，一把梯子的横档。
终有一天，你会摸到出差错的东西，
小脑壳，破碎的蓝色山丘，令人惶恐的沉寂。
到那时，你的微笑将是失而复得的钱财。
1962年9月26日
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Qiao: I Need A Hammer
Qiao: I Need A Hammer
桥：《我需要一把铁锤》
I Need A Hammer
by Qiao tr. Fan Jinghua
It’s seven a.m. in Hangchou
And I’ve moved the bed to another direction
The quilt to my left covers nobody
Where has the mosquito gone
Last night it sucked enough blood and its life must be a happy one
I am hungry and I sit on the bed
A blank face at a blank wall
There are bones struggling behind the whitish plaster
All night a voice chants to my ears
“You need a hammer”
Oh, I need a hammer
To strike a nail into the cement wall
So I can hang my towel, my white nightgown,
My pompous hats and a straw handbag
I need a hammer to strike into the wall
A painting and three butterflies I’ve embroidered for three years
One blue, one red and the other without eyes
Then I’ll strike into it a pale face
The face of the one who once held me in his arms
And he is now eaglespread like a cross
I am still single
So I nail my right hand into the wall
我需要一把铁锤
作者：桥
杭州的早晨，我把床移了一个方向
七点钟，左边的被子是空的
昨天晚上蚊子躺在那里
它吸够了血，它的人生十分美满
我非常饥饿
坐起来，看到一面空的墙
雪白的墙灰后面，有骨头在里面挣扎
有个声音不停地在墙里说话
一个晚上，它重复告诉我：
“你，需要一把铁锤”
我需要一把铁锤
把一颗水泥钉钉进墙里
毛巾、白色睡衣、虚伪的帽子、麦秸杆手袋挂在墙上
一幅画钉进去
三只蝴蝶钉进去
我绣了三年的蝴蝶
一只兰，一只红，另一只没有眼睛
接着我钉进去一张惨白的脸
那个曾经抱过我的人
在墙上，张开十字的手臂
我未婚
把右手钉了上去
桥：《我需要一把铁锤》
I Need A Hammer
by Qiao tr. Fan Jinghua
It’s seven a.m. in Hangchou
And I’ve moved the bed to another direction
The quilt to my left covers nobody
Where has the mosquito gone
Last night it sucked enough blood and its life must be a happy one
I am hungry and I sit on the bed
A blank face at a blank wall
There are bones struggling behind the whitish plaster
All night a voice chants to my ears
“You need a hammer”
Oh, I need a hammer
To strike a nail into the cement wall
So I can hang my towel, my white nightgown,
My pompous hats and a straw handbag
I need a hammer to strike into the wall
A painting and three butterflies I’ve embroidered for three years
One blue, one red and the other without eyes
Then I’ll strike into it a pale face
The face of the one who once held me in his arms
And he is now eaglespread like a cross
I am still single
So I nail my right hand into the wall
我需要一把铁锤
作者：桥
杭州的早晨，我把床移了一个方向
七点钟，左边的被子是空的
昨天晚上蚊子躺在那里
它吸够了血，它的人生十分美满
我非常饥饿
坐起来，看到一面空的墙
雪白的墙灰后面，有骨头在里面挣扎
有个声音不停地在墙里说话
一个晚上，它重复告诉我：
“你，需要一把铁锤”
我需要一把铁锤
把一颗水泥钉钉进墙里
毛巾、白色睡衣、虚伪的帽子、麦秸杆手袋挂在墙上
一幅画钉进去
三只蝴蝶钉进去
我绣了三年的蝴蝶
一只兰，一只红，另一只没有眼睛
接着我钉进去一张惨白的脸
那个曾经抱过我的人
在墙上，张开十字的手臂
我未婚
把右手钉了上去
Qiao: The One Who Huddles Under A Tree
Asked by a friend to translate some poems of her friend Qiao (meaning "Bridge", penname of He Zhuangning). Qiao was born in Hangzhou and now lives in Shenzhen, Guangdong (Canton). The translation is for a Denish rock band, so I take some liberty and make the words a little prosaic and change the form of the poem a little.
The One Who Huddles Under A Tree
by Qiao tr. Fan Jinghua
The one who has a cutting edge usually hides
Yesterday he bloomed as a white flower
On a camphor tree by the roadside
The day before he hid in an electronic guitar
Charged all the night
A week before that he grew a long beard of cares
He had fallen into a cherry
So he put that week in his mouth and shut his teeth
The one who has a cutting edge usually hides
He peels off his bark for the night
The dewdrops fondle his bare trunk
And he is made an oil-lamp
With a handful of snow I wipe my face
And from the fissure between us the sprout of time shoots up
The one who has a cutting edge usually hides
He is my root and I am a tree
All winter long, our fingers are interlocked
And we press the spring down with our body
Sometimes he jumps into the lake to catch fish
And in passing picks up a bundle of time too
The one who has a cutting edge usually hides
He pushes open a cherrywood window and jumps into the night
He is escaping with a reaper on his back
He is covered with moss from top to bottom
The day after tomorrow he will come to a village called Prosperity
The crops are waiting to be reaped and stolen out there
那个藏在树下的人
作者：桥
那个深藏不露的人
昨天在北山路的樟树上开了一朵小白花
前天他藏在一把吉他里
整个晚上都插着电
再往前一个星期
他长出胡子
心事重重
爱上一颗樱桃
他把那个星期都含在嘴里
那个深藏不露的人
他剥光了自己的树皮
深夜露水摸着他的瘦躯干
他像油灯一样
我往脸上抹了一把雪
时间在我们两个人之间的缝隙里长出芽
那个深藏不露的人
其实他就是我的树根
整个冬天我们十指交叉把春天压在身体下面
偶尔他跳进湖里
摸鱼
顺便摘一把时间
那个深藏不露的人
今夜即将推开一扇樱桃木窗跳进黑夜
他背着一把镰刀逃跑
他的肉体长满了青苔
后天他即将到达一个叫昌化的地方
在那里一大片农田等着收割
偷走整个村庄
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Plath: A Birthday Present
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 173
A Birthday Present
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is just what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking
'Is this the one I am to appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.
Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'
But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it was bones, or a pearl button.
I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.
I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,
The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!
It must be a tusk there, a ghost-column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.
Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed---I do not mind if it is small.
Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,
The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.
I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified
The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.
I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.
If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine—
Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece in purple,
Must you kill what you can?
There is this one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.
It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center
Where spilt lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.
Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and too numb to use it.
Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter
Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.
30 September 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第173首
生日礼物
这是什么，在这面纱下，丑陋还是美丽？
它波光闪闪，有乳房吗？有锋刃吗？
我肯定它很独特，我肯定它正是我所求之物。
当我静静地埋头做饭，我能感到它在看，感到它在思索。
“这就是我要为之出面争取的那个？
这就是被选中的那人，有黑洞洞的眼窝和一道伤疤？
用量杯量面粉，去掉多余的，
谨守着标准，标准，标准。
就是这个人去迎接天使报喜？
我的上帝，真是好笑！”
但它熠熠闪光，并不停止，我想它想要我。
它就是骨头架子或一只珍珠纽扣，我也不会介意。
今年，我反正并没指望要什么礼物。
说到底，我活着，仅仅是靠一场意外。
那一次，任何可能的方式，都能兴冲冲地自杀。
现在，有这些面纱，像帘子一样熠熠闪光，
一月的窗上挂着精细的缎子，
白得像婴儿的被单，闪烁着死的气息。哦，象牙！
那肯定是一只长牙，一只幽灵柱。
难道你看不出，我并不在乎它是什么，
难道你会不给我？
别不好意思——我不介意它是否很小。
别那么小器，再大我也有受得住。
那我们就近坐下吧，各守一边，赏玩那闪光，
它的光泽、它镜子般的特质。
让我们对着它举行最后的晚餐，像一只医院托盘。
我晓得你为何不把它送给我，
你心惊胆战，
怕这世界会随着一声尖叫腾起，而你的头也会随之而去，
一张有浮雕的铜盾牌，一件古董，
你曾孙们的奇珍异宝。
不要战战兢兢，没那么了不得。
我只会收下它，静静走开。
你甚至不会听到我打开，不会有纸的嚓嚓声，
不会有扔掉的丝带，不会有那最后一声惊喜。
我想你不值得我花这么多心思。
可你从来不懂那些面纱怎么谋害我的日子。
对你来说，它们只是些透明纸，清净的空气。
但是，我的上帝，云朵也像棉花啊。
它们如军队集结。它们是一氧化碳。
我舒服地，舒服地，吸着，
将那些看不见的、数以万计的几乎确凿的
尘埃，填进我的脉管，将岁月勾销出我的生命。
你为这个日子穿上了银色套装。哦，计算器——
你有没有可能放手，让事情过去，不折不扣？
你必须将每一片都盖上紫色的印戳吗？
你必须手刃你能杀的一切？
这是我今天想要的惟一，只有你才能给我。
它就站在我的窗口，像天空一样恢弘。
它从我的床单中呼吸，那冷酷的死亡中心，
破裂的生活在那里凝结，僵化成历史。
别让它随着邮件而来，手指连着手指。
别让它口头传来，等到它全部传到，
恐怕我已是六十老太，麻木得用不了。
尽管放下那面纱，面纱，面纱。
假如是死亡，
我也会欣赏它深沉的重力，它永恒的眼睛。
我会知道你用心严肃。
那么就会有一种尊严，就会有一次生日。
那刀子就不会雕刻，而是切入，
纯粹而利落，像婴儿的啼哭。
宇宙，从我身侧一掠而过。
1962年9月30日
No. 173
A Birthday Present
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is just what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking
'Is this the one I am to appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.
Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'
But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it was bones, or a pearl button.
I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.
I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,
The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!
It must be a tusk there, a ghost-column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.
Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed---I do not mind if it is small.
Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,
The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.
I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified
The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.
I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.
If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine—
Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece in purple,
Must you kill what you can?
There is this one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.
It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center
Where spilt lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.
Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and too numb to use it.
Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter
Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.
30 September 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第173首
生日礼物
这是什么，在这面纱下，丑陋还是美丽？
它波光闪闪，有乳房吗？有锋刃吗？
我肯定它很独特，我肯定它正是我所求之物。
当我静静地埋头做饭，我能感到它在看，感到它在思索。
“这就是我要为之出面争取的那个？
这就是被选中的那人，有黑洞洞的眼窝和一道伤疤？
用量杯量面粉，去掉多余的，
谨守着标准，标准，标准。
就是这个人去迎接天使报喜？
我的上帝，真是好笑！”
但它熠熠闪光，并不停止，我想它想要我。
它就是骨头架子或一只珍珠纽扣，我也不会介意。
今年，我反正并没指望要什么礼物。
说到底，我活着，仅仅是靠一场意外。
那一次，任何可能的方式，都能兴冲冲地自杀。
现在，有这些面纱，像帘子一样熠熠闪光，
一月的窗上挂着精细的缎子，
白得像婴儿的被单，闪烁着死的气息。哦，象牙！
那肯定是一只长牙，一只幽灵柱。
难道你看不出，我并不在乎它是什么，
难道你会不给我？
别不好意思——我不介意它是否很小。
别那么小器，再大我也有受得住。
那我们就近坐下吧，各守一边，赏玩那闪光，
它的光泽、它镜子般的特质。
让我们对着它举行最后的晚餐，像一只医院托盘。
我晓得你为何不把它送给我，
你心惊胆战，
怕这世界会随着一声尖叫腾起，而你的头也会随之而去，
一张有浮雕的铜盾牌，一件古董，
你曾孙们的奇珍异宝。
不要战战兢兢，没那么了不得。
我只会收下它，静静走开。
你甚至不会听到我打开，不会有纸的嚓嚓声，
不会有扔掉的丝带，不会有那最后一声惊喜。
我想你不值得我花这么多心思。
可你从来不懂那些面纱怎么谋害我的日子。
对你来说，它们只是些透明纸，清净的空气。
但是，我的上帝，云朵也像棉花啊。
它们如军队集结。它们是一氧化碳。
我舒服地，舒服地，吸着，
将那些看不见的、数以万计的几乎确凿的
尘埃，填进我的脉管，将岁月勾销出我的生命。
你为这个日子穿上了银色套装。哦，计算器——
你有没有可能放手，让事情过去，不折不扣？
你必须将每一片都盖上紫色的印戳吗？
你必须手刃你能杀的一切？
这是我今天想要的惟一，只有你才能给我。
它就站在我的窗口，像天空一样恢弘。
它从我的床单中呼吸，那冷酷的死亡中心，
破裂的生活在那里凝结，僵化成历史。
别让它随着邮件而来，手指连着手指。
别让它口头传来，等到它全部传到，
恐怕我已是六十老太，麻木得用不了。
尽管放下那面纱，面纱，面纱。
假如是死亡，
我也会欣赏它深沉的重力，它永恒的眼睛。
我会知道你用心严肃。
那么就会有一种尊严，就会有一次生日。
那刀子就不会雕刻，而是切入，
纯粹而利落，像婴儿的啼哭。
宇宙，从我身侧一掠而过。
1962年9月30日
Monday, September 14, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Mozart with a Stalin Era Style
Mozart with a Stalin Era Style
Stalin listened to the live broadcast of Maria Yudina playing Mozart and ordered
A record to be sent to his villa by morning. But, because, perhaps,
She once read a poem from Doctor Zhivago as an encore, then there must exist
An unwritten regulation: She shall not be recorded, play as she may.
By that midnight, Stalin’s panic underlings found her shabby shag
And drove her to a studio where a small and equally panic orchestra was assembled.
By early morning a legend came into being:
A single pressing of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23 was produced.
Ere long, Maria Yudina received a money of 20000 ruble, as a Stalin Award,
To which she felt obliged to write an acknowledgement letter:
"Thank you for your help, Iosif Vissarionovich. I will offer my perpetual
Prayers for your sins committed before the people and the state. Lord, I have faith,
Is merciful, and he will forgive you, as I have donated the money to my church."
Before sending in the letter, Stalin’s underlings had already prepared
An arrest warrant, and they were waiting to be approved by a scowl from their master.
Stalin did not make a sound, putting the letter beside a pile of letters
From seksots, and for an unbearably long period they stood there waiting,
But Stalin remained silent, face blank, even without his pipe.
When he was found dead in his villa, the Mozart record was still on the gramophone,
Making a never-ending creaking sound. Needless to say, before the grate,
Stalin had faced the music alone, and perhaps in horror of death, but Yudina’s Mozart
Was running like a brave creek from a hot spring, indomitably washing away
The icy snow cap on the black stones along its way.
Thanks for this "creature that sleeps in a coffin," as people said of her,
That our human world has known a Mozart with a Stalin era style.
Think about the contrast, the force!
September 13, 2009
斯大林时代的莫扎特
斯大林听到广播直播尤金娜的演奏，立即要手下
将她的唱片送去他的别墅。可是，因为，或许，
她在一次演奏会上以朗读《日瓦戈医生》作为安可，所以
早有不成文的文件：她不得留下录音。
那些慌了神的委员们半夜找到她那四处漏风的小屋，
强行将她带走，一个传奇版本终于在清晨诞生：
全世界只有一张的《莫扎特第23号钢琴协奏曲》唱片。
不久，尤金娜收到两万卢布的奖励，她被告知
那是斯大林的指示。于是她觉得有必要写信致谢：
“谢谢你的帮助，约瑟夫·维萨里昂诺维奇。我将日夜为你
祈祷，求主原谅你在人民和国家面前犯下的大罪。主，
是仁慈的，他一定会原谅你；因为我已把钱捐给了我的教会”。
他的手下在将这封信报送斯大林之前，已预备好了
逮捕令，只等他看信时皱一下眉头；可斯大林一声没吭，将信
放在一堆告密文件旁；他久久地站着，毫无表情，竟然还没抽烟斗。
斯大林死了的时候，那场唱片还在他的唱机上
发出嗤嗤声；不用说，在那刺耳的杂音之前，斯大林独自
面对死亡，或许也曾恐慌，但尤金娜的莫扎特
如奔涌的溪流来自温泉，不屈地洗刷着被冰雪凝结的黑岩石。
这个睡在棺材里的生灵，有了她，人间才有
斯大林时代风格的莫扎特。那对比、那力度！
2009年9月13-14日
Stalin listened to the live broadcast of Maria Yudina playing Mozart and ordered
A record to be sent to his villa by morning. But, because, perhaps,
She once read a poem from Doctor Zhivago as an encore, then there must exist
An unwritten regulation: She shall not be recorded, play as she may.
By that midnight, Stalin’s panic underlings found her shabby shag
And drove her to a studio where a small and equally panic orchestra was assembled.
By early morning a legend came into being:
A single pressing of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23 was produced.
Ere long, Maria Yudina received a money of 20000 ruble, as a Stalin Award,
To which she felt obliged to write an acknowledgement letter:
"Thank you for your help, Iosif Vissarionovich. I will offer my perpetual
Prayers for your sins committed before the people and the state. Lord, I have faith,
Is merciful, and he will forgive you, as I have donated the money to my church."
Before sending in the letter, Stalin’s underlings had already prepared
An arrest warrant, and they were waiting to be approved by a scowl from their master.
Stalin did not make a sound, putting the letter beside a pile of letters
From seksots, and for an unbearably long period they stood there waiting,
But Stalin remained silent, face blank, even without his pipe.
When he was found dead in his villa, the Mozart record was still on the gramophone,
Making a never-ending creaking sound. Needless to say, before the grate,
Stalin had faced the music alone, and perhaps in horror of death, but Yudina’s Mozart
Was running like a brave creek from a hot spring, indomitably washing away
The icy snow cap on the black stones along its way.
Thanks for this "creature that sleeps in a coffin," as people said of her,
That our human world has known a Mozart with a Stalin era style.
Think about the contrast, the force!
September 13, 2009
斯大林时代的莫扎特
斯大林听到广播直播尤金娜的演奏，立即要手下
将她的唱片送去他的别墅。可是，因为，或许，
她在一次演奏会上以朗读《日瓦戈医生》作为安可，所以
早有不成文的文件：她不得留下录音。
那些慌了神的委员们半夜找到她那四处漏风的小屋，
强行将她带走，一个传奇版本终于在清晨诞生：
全世界只有一张的《莫扎特第23号钢琴协奏曲》唱片。
不久，尤金娜收到两万卢布的奖励，她被告知
那是斯大林的指示。于是她觉得有必要写信致谢：
“谢谢你的帮助，约瑟夫·维萨里昂诺维奇。我将日夜为你
祈祷，求主原谅你在人民和国家面前犯下的大罪。主，
是仁慈的，他一定会原谅你；因为我已把钱捐给了我的教会”。
他的手下在将这封信报送斯大林之前，已预备好了
逮捕令，只等他看信时皱一下眉头；可斯大林一声没吭，将信
放在一堆告密文件旁；他久久地站着，毫无表情，竟然还没抽烟斗。
斯大林死了的时候，那场唱片还在他的唱机上
发出嗤嗤声；不用说，在那刺耳的杂音之前，斯大林独自
面对死亡，或许也曾恐慌，但尤金娜的莫扎特
如奔涌的溪流来自温泉，不屈地洗刷着被冰雪凝结的黑岩石。
这个睡在棺材里的生灵，有了她，人间才有
斯大林时代风格的莫扎特。那对比、那力度！
2009年9月13-14日
Fan Jinghua: To My Laptop
Today, my four-year-old laptop shows for the first time symptoms of disease or senility, and I write a poem for her.
To My Laptop
I confess, I hang on with you all day long
Not for you, but for play, sometimes purely out of boredom.
Even if I am earnest, I am only using you to reach others.
I try to keep you as a tool only, to take me to places good men
Do not visit, and I bring you viruses to your hardcore;
But when you are slow due to that, I unabashedly remove your memory.
I put my beloved one on your face, and every time you greet me
With delightful sound, I only wish you could go as quickly as possible.
I may just click on you, and enter whatever a gate,
Even though the pop-ups are low and base to the sight.
Only when I am away, you may be given a chance to dance by yourself,
And that is because I want you to shield my privacy, saving my face.
Everyone jokes that you are my paramour, because I spend most of my life
With you, which no one else can hope for, and even my wife,
Who is the one I hold in my arms every night, harbors a profound grudge.
By nature, you may claim the right to sit on my lap whenever I’m alone,
But only very occasionally do you have the chance to crouch outside the quilt
Over my wife and me, entertaining us or merely spicing up a lovemaking.
You never take to your heart that I always keep you at an arm’s distance,
And when I make a copy of you as a standby, you never complain my lack of trust.
All said and done, you and I know so well that you are my only confidante,
I take out to you all my secrets, my cowardice and immorality, my pride and ambition.
You are the only one who can betray me and bring irrecoverable hurt,
And you know this, so you have to bear to death.
September 14, 2009
致我的Laptop
我承认，整天泡着你只是为了游戏，
甚至发泄，即使认真，也是利用你
和别人来往；我还以你作为工具，
去不该去的地方，将病毒传染到你的内脏；
而当你因病迟滞，我毫不怜惜地给你洗脑。
我将最喜爱的人贴在你的脸上，每次
你欢欣地迎接我，而我只希望你快点走过，
随意在你身上一击，闪入另一个门径，
哪怕迎面而来的只是低俗不堪的花边。
你，只在我离开的时候，才自娱自舞，
那是我让你守着我的门面，保护我的隐私。
人人都说你是我的宠儿，我陪着你的时间
多于这世间的任何人，甚至我妻子，唉，
尽管她是我夜夜拥在怀中的女人，她对你仍然充满妒恨。
按说，你也可以时时坐在我的膝上，可只有偶尔
你才能在我和妻子的被褥外，提供点消遣，或者助兴。
你似乎毫不介怀我总和你保持两尺之距，
也不抱怨我从没完全信任过你，另外复制一个你备用；
然而，你我两心相知，你是我惟一的知己，
我最深的隐秘，我的孽情和卑怯，我的痴狂和孤傲，我
只对你倾诉。惟有你的背叛才会带给我
永难恢复的伤害；你懂，所以你承受到死。
2009年9月14日
To My Laptop
I confess, I hang on with you all day long
Not for you, but for play, sometimes purely out of boredom.
Even if I am earnest, I am only using you to reach others.
I try to keep you as a tool only, to take me to places good men
Do not visit, and I bring you viruses to your hardcore;
But when you are slow due to that, I unabashedly remove your memory.
I put my beloved one on your face, and every time you greet me
With delightful sound, I only wish you could go as quickly as possible.
I may just click on you, and enter whatever a gate,
Even though the pop-ups are low and base to the sight.
Only when I am away, you may be given a chance to dance by yourself,
And that is because I want you to shield my privacy, saving my face.
Everyone jokes that you are my paramour, because I spend most of my life
With you, which no one else can hope for, and even my wife,
Who is the one I hold in my arms every night, harbors a profound grudge.
By nature, you may claim the right to sit on my lap whenever I’m alone,
But only very occasionally do you have the chance to crouch outside the quilt
Over my wife and me, entertaining us or merely spicing up a lovemaking.
You never take to your heart that I always keep you at an arm’s distance,
And when I make a copy of you as a standby, you never complain my lack of trust.
All said and done, you and I know so well that you are my only confidante,
I take out to you all my secrets, my cowardice and immorality, my pride and ambition.
You are the only one who can betray me and bring irrecoverable hurt,
And you know this, so you have to bear to death.
September 14, 2009
致我的Laptop
我承认，整天泡着你只是为了游戏，
甚至发泄，即使认真，也是利用你
和别人来往；我还以你作为工具，
去不该去的地方，将病毒传染到你的内脏；
而当你因病迟滞，我毫不怜惜地给你洗脑。
我将最喜爱的人贴在你的脸上，每次
你欢欣地迎接我，而我只希望你快点走过，
随意在你身上一击，闪入另一个门径，
哪怕迎面而来的只是低俗不堪的花边。
你，只在我离开的时候，才自娱自舞，
那是我让你守着我的门面，保护我的隐私。
人人都说你是我的宠儿，我陪着你的时间
多于这世间的任何人，甚至我妻子，唉，
尽管她是我夜夜拥在怀中的女人，她对你仍然充满妒恨。
按说，你也可以时时坐在我的膝上，可只有偶尔
你才能在我和妻子的被褥外，提供点消遣，或者助兴。
你似乎毫不介怀我总和你保持两尺之距，
也不抱怨我从没完全信任过你，另外复制一个你备用；
然而，你我两心相知，你是我惟一的知己，
我最深的隐秘，我的孽情和卑怯，我的痴狂和孤傲，我
只对你倾诉。惟有你的背叛才会带给我
永难恢复的伤害；你懂，所以你承受到死。
2009年9月14日
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Close to Being Untitled
Close to Being Untitled
You may turn a little, your eyes too, but your palms should face up
And hold there, and then
Take this piece of blank paper as a window of promise
And fill it with a boat, a pair of birds and file of trees
Against the setting sun
You may want to slide show them, one by one
As if you’re turning the pages of a bilingual poetry book
You read a language, and she reads another
Each waiting for the other
As the dropped shadows of wild geese flow over a crystal ball
Sept. 10, 2009
接近于无题
可以侧一点身，眼睛也可以稍稍转动，但手心
必须向上，停在那儿，然后
将这张白纸当作前景的窗口
从日落的方向
拖来一只船，一对鸟，一排树
让它们的剪影渐次展现
犹如你们读同一本双语对照的诗集
你，一种语言，她，另一种，彼此等待
而雁阵的人字从一只水晶球面流过
2009年9月10日
You may turn a little, your eyes too, but your palms should face up
And hold there, and then
Take this piece of blank paper as a window of promise
And fill it with a boat, a pair of birds and file of trees
Against the setting sun
You may want to slide show them, one by one
As if you’re turning the pages of a bilingual poetry book
You read a language, and she reads another
Each waiting for the other
As the dropped shadows of wild geese flow over a crystal ball
Sept. 10, 2009
接近于无题
可以侧一点身，眼睛也可以稍稍转动，但手心
必须向上，停在那儿，然后
将这张白纸当作前景的窗口
从日落的方向
拖来一只船，一对鸟，一排树
让它们的剪影渐次展现
犹如你们读同一本双语对照的诗集
你，一种语言，她，另一种，彼此等待
而雁阵的人字从一只水晶球面流过
2009年9月10日
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Plath: The Detective
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 174
The Detective
What was she doing when it blew in
Over the seven hills, the red furrow, the blue mountain?
Was she arranging cups? It is important.
Was she at the window, listening?
In that valley the train shrieks echo like souls on hooks.
That is the valley of death, though the cows thrive.
In her garden the lies were shaking out their moist silks
And the eyes of the killer moving sluglike and sidelong,
Unable to face the fingers, those egotists.
The fingers were tamping a woman into a wall,
A body into a pipe, and the smoke rising.
This is the smell of years burning, here in the kitchen,
These are the deceits, tacked up like family photographs,
And this is a man, look at his smile,
The death weapon? No one is dead.
There is no body in the house at all.
There is the smell of polish, there are plush carpets.
There is the sunlight, playing its blades,
Bored hoodlum in a red room
Where the wireless talks to itself like an elderly relative.
Did it come like an arrow, did it come like a knife?
Which of the poisons is it?
Which of the nerve-curlers, the convulsors? Did it electrify?
This is a case without a body.
The body does not come into it at all.
It is a case of vaporization.
The mouth first, its absence reported
In the second year. It had been insatiable
And in punishment was hung out like brown fruit
To wrinkle and dry.
The breasts next.
These were harder, two white stones.
The milk came yellow, then blue and sweet as water.
There was no absence of lips, there were two children,
But their bones showed, and the moon smiled.
Then the dry wood, the gates,
The brown motherly furrows, the whole estate.
We walk on air, Watson.
There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus.
There is only a crow in a tree. Make notes.
1 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第174首
侦探
她当时在做什么，这事不期而至
越过那七座山峰、红色沟壑、蓝色的山脉？
她在整理茶杯？这很重要。
她正站在窗前，凝神静听？
山谷中，火车的尖啸回响，如生灵挂在钩子上。
那是死亡之谷，尽管奶牛茁壮成长。
她的园子里，谎言抖开带着潮气的丝绸，
而凶手的眼睛滴溜溜地转，鼻涕虫似的，斜着眼瞄，
不敢正眼看手指，它们可真自以为是。
手指正在把一个女人塞进墙壁，
尸体塞进管道，而浓烟正在升腾。
这是岁月燃烧的味道，就在这厨房里，
这些都是谎话，拼凑起来，就像全家福照片，
而这是一个男人，看他的笑，
杀人凶器？没有人遇害。
这一家屋里根本就没人。
倒是有上光剂的味道，还有豪华的地毯。
更有阳光普照，摆弄它的刀刃，
像无聊的小混混在一个红房间，
收音机对着自己唠叨，像一位年老的亲戚。
它像箭一样射来？像刀一样砍来？
用哪一种毒药？
用哪种神经瘫痪剂、痉挛剂？是否带电？
这是一宗没有尸体的凶案。
尸体根本就没有在现场出现。
这是一宗蒸发凶案。
首先是嘴，它被报失踪，
在第二年。它原本就一直毫不知足，
作为惩罚，它被挂在外面，就像棕色的水果
皱缩、脱水。
其次是乳房。
它们变硬了，两块白石。
流出的乳汁呈黄色，然后转蓝，变甜，像水。
嘴唇一片不缺，还有两个小孩，
但他们瘦骨嶙峋，而月亮在暗笑。
接着是枯槁的树木，几道大门，
棕色的慈母似的沟壑，整座庄园。
我们走在空气中，华生医生。
只有那一轮明月，泡在磷水防腐液中。
只有一只乌鸦，在林中。请一一纪录。
1962 年10月1日
No. 174
The Detective
What was she doing when it blew in
Over the seven hills, the red furrow, the blue mountain?
Was she arranging cups? It is important.
Was she at the window, listening?
In that valley the train shrieks echo like souls on hooks.
That is the valley of death, though the cows thrive.
In her garden the lies were shaking out their moist silks
And the eyes of the killer moving sluglike and sidelong,
Unable to face the fingers, those egotists.
The fingers were tamping a woman into a wall,
A body into a pipe, and the smoke rising.
This is the smell of years burning, here in the kitchen,
These are the deceits, tacked up like family photographs,
And this is a man, look at his smile,
The death weapon? No one is dead.
There is no body in the house at all.
There is the smell of polish, there are plush carpets.
There is the sunlight, playing its blades,
Bored hoodlum in a red room
Where the wireless talks to itself like an elderly relative.
Did it come like an arrow, did it come like a knife?
Which of the poisons is it?
Which of the nerve-curlers, the convulsors? Did it electrify?
This is a case without a body.
The body does not come into it at all.
It is a case of vaporization.
The mouth first, its absence reported
In the second year. It had been insatiable
And in punishment was hung out like brown fruit
To wrinkle and dry.
The breasts next.
These were harder, two white stones.
The milk came yellow, then blue and sweet as water.
There was no absence of lips, there were two children,
But their bones showed, and the moon smiled.
Then the dry wood, the gates,
The brown motherly furrows, the whole estate.
We walk on air, Watson.
There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus.
There is only a crow in a tree. Make notes.
1 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第174首
侦探
她当时在做什么，这事不期而至
越过那七座山峰、红色沟壑、蓝色的山脉？
她在整理茶杯？这很重要。
她正站在窗前，凝神静听？
山谷中，火车的尖啸回响，如生灵挂在钩子上。
那是死亡之谷，尽管奶牛茁壮成长。
她的园子里，谎言抖开带着潮气的丝绸，
而凶手的眼睛滴溜溜地转，鼻涕虫似的，斜着眼瞄，
不敢正眼看手指，它们可真自以为是。
手指正在把一个女人塞进墙壁，
尸体塞进管道，而浓烟正在升腾。
这是岁月燃烧的味道，就在这厨房里，
这些都是谎话，拼凑起来，就像全家福照片，
而这是一个男人，看他的笑，
杀人凶器？没有人遇害。
这一家屋里根本就没人。
倒是有上光剂的味道，还有豪华的地毯。
更有阳光普照，摆弄它的刀刃，
像无聊的小混混在一个红房间，
收音机对着自己唠叨，像一位年老的亲戚。
它像箭一样射来？像刀一样砍来？
用哪一种毒药？
用哪种神经瘫痪剂、痉挛剂？是否带电？
这是一宗没有尸体的凶案。
尸体根本就没有在现场出现。
这是一宗蒸发凶案。
首先是嘴，它被报失踪，
在第二年。它原本就一直毫不知足，
作为惩罚，它被挂在外面，就像棕色的水果
皱缩、脱水。
其次是乳房。
它们变硬了，两块白石。
流出的乳汁呈黄色，然后转蓝，变甜，像水。
嘴唇一片不缺，还有两个小孩，
但他们瘦骨嶙峋，而月亮在暗笑。
接着是枯槁的树木，几道大门，
棕色的慈母似的沟壑，整座庄园。
我们走在空气中，华生医生。
只有那一轮明月，泡在磷水防腐液中。
只有一只乌鸦，在林中。请一一纪录。
1962 年10月1日
Plath: The Courage of Shutting-Up
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 175
The Courage of Shutting-Up
The courage of the shut mouth, in spite of artillery!
The line pink and quiet, a worm, basking.
There are black disks behind it, the disks of outrage,
And the outrage of a sky, the lined brain of it.
The disks revolve, they ask to be heard--
Loaded, as they are, with accounts of bastardies.
Bastardies, usages, desertions and doubleness,
The needle journeying in its groove,
Silver beast between two dark canyons,
A great surgeon, now a tattooist,
Tattooing over and over the same blue grievances,
The snakes, the babies, the tits
On mermaids and two-legged dreamgirls.
The surgeon is quiet, he does not speak.
He has seen too much death, his hands are full of it.
So the disks of the brain revolve, like the muzzles of cannon.
Then there is that antique billhook, the tongue,
Indefatigable, purple. Must it be cut out?
It has nine tails, it is dangerous.
And the noise it flays from the air, once it gets going!
No, the tongue, too, has been put by,
Hung up in the library with the engravings of Rangoon
And the fox heads, the otter heads, the heads of dead rabbits.
It is a marvelous object--
The things it has pierced in its time.
But how about the eyes, the eyes, the eyes?
Mirrors can kill and talk, they are terrible rooms
In which a torture goes on one can only watch.
The face that lived in this mirror is the face of a dead man.
Do not worry about the eyes--
They may be white and shy, they are no stool pigeons,
Their death rays folded like flags
Of a country no longer heard of,
An obstinate independency
Insolvent among the mountains.
2 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第175首
闭嘴的勇气
紧闭的嘴，勇气可嘉，无视炮阵！
那一列粉红安静的队列，一只长虫，晒着太阳。
它后面有几个黑圆盘，暴怒的圆盘，
一苍天的暴怒，排满了它的整个脑子。
圆盘旋转着，它们要求有人听见——
它们装满了对卑劣行径的诉说，犹如炮弹已上膛。
卑劣不检、利用、遗弃和阳奉阴违，
撞针正沿着槽轨向前推进，
银色野兽逡巡在两扇黑峡谷之间，
一个伟大的手术师，而这个是纹身师，
一遍又一遍纹着同样的蓝色冤屈，
纹水蛇、纹孩童、也纹乳头，
纹在美人鱼身上，在两腿的梦中女郎身上。
手术师沉静从容，一言不发。
他见识过太多死亡，双手也已沾满。
于是大脑的圆盘旋转，如大炮的嘴。
接着是那古董钩型镰刀，那舌头，
紫色的，永不疲倦。必须割掉吗？
它有九根尾巴，非常危险。
一旦自由放任，它就能空穴来风，制造无穷噪音！
不，这舌头，也已被存放一边了，
高挂在图书馆里，一道存放的，还有仰光的雕刻画，
狐狸头、水獭头、死兔子的头。
这是一件神奇物——
它当道时，就已戳穿许多物体。
可怎么处置眼睛、眼睛、眼睛？
镜子都可以杀人，还能言善辩，它们是恐怖屋，
那里的折磨永无休止，人，只能眼睁睁地看着。
这面镜子里住着一张脸，属于一个死了的男人。
不必担心这双眼睛——
它们可能泛白而害羞，但不是作诱饵的鸽子，
它们的死亡光芒折叠着，
犹如某个不再听说的国家的国旗，
一种倔强的独立，
在群山之间亏蚀破产。
1962年10 月2日
No. 175
The Courage of Shutting-Up
The courage of the shut mouth, in spite of artillery!
The line pink and quiet, a worm, basking.
There are black disks behind it, the disks of outrage,
And the outrage of a sky, the lined brain of it.
The disks revolve, they ask to be heard--
Loaded, as they are, with accounts of bastardies.
Bastardies, usages, desertions and doubleness,
The needle journeying in its groove,
Silver beast between two dark canyons,
A great surgeon, now a tattooist,
Tattooing over and over the same blue grievances,
The snakes, the babies, the tits
On mermaids and two-legged dreamgirls.
The surgeon is quiet, he does not speak.
He has seen too much death, his hands are full of it.
So the disks of the brain revolve, like the muzzles of cannon.
Then there is that antique billhook, the tongue,
Indefatigable, purple. Must it be cut out?
It has nine tails, it is dangerous.
And the noise it flays from the air, once it gets going!
No, the tongue, too, has been put by,
Hung up in the library with the engravings of Rangoon
And the fox heads, the otter heads, the heads of dead rabbits.
It is a marvelous object--
The things it has pierced in its time.
But how about the eyes, the eyes, the eyes?
Mirrors can kill and talk, they are terrible rooms
In which a torture goes on one can only watch.
The face that lived in this mirror is the face of a dead man.
Do not worry about the eyes--
They may be white and shy, they are no stool pigeons,
Their death rays folded like flags
Of a country no longer heard of,
An obstinate independency
Insolvent among the mountains.
2 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第175首
闭嘴的勇气
紧闭的嘴，勇气可嘉，无视炮阵！
那一列粉红安静的队列，一只长虫，晒着太阳。
它后面有几个黑圆盘，暴怒的圆盘，
一苍天的暴怒，排满了它的整个脑子。
圆盘旋转着，它们要求有人听见——
它们装满了对卑劣行径的诉说，犹如炮弹已上膛。
卑劣不检、利用、遗弃和阳奉阴违，
撞针正沿着槽轨向前推进，
银色野兽逡巡在两扇黑峡谷之间，
一个伟大的手术师，而这个是纹身师，
一遍又一遍纹着同样的蓝色冤屈，
纹水蛇、纹孩童、也纹乳头，
纹在美人鱼身上，在两腿的梦中女郎身上。
手术师沉静从容，一言不发。
他见识过太多死亡，双手也已沾满。
于是大脑的圆盘旋转，如大炮的嘴。
接着是那古董钩型镰刀，那舌头，
紫色的，永不疲倦。必须割掉吗？
它有九根尾巴，非常危险。
一旦自由放任，它就能空穴来风，制造无穷噪音！
不，这舌头，也已被存放一边了，
高挂在图书馆里，一道存放的，还有仰光的雕刻画，
狐狸头、水獭头、死兔子的头。
这是一件神奇物——
它当道时，就已戳穿许多物体。
可怎么处置眼睛、眼睛、眼睛？
镜子都可以杀人，还能言善辩，它们是恐怖屋，
那里的折磨永无休止，人，只能眼睁睁地看着。
这面镜子里住着一张脸，属于一个死了的男人。
不必担心这双眼睛——
它们可能泛白而害羞，但不是作诱饵的鸽子，
它们的死亡光芒折叠着，
犹如某个不再听说的国家的国旗，
一种倔强的独立，
在群山之间亏蚀破产。
1962年10 月2日
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Xiao Maxian: Before Hunting
Before Hunting
by Xiao Maxian tr. Fan Jinghua
Today, God creates the sun and the moon…and for another day
And one more…
The heat is all ready
The sunset is ready too…as the setting
For your commemoration
You are silent, keeping a cool mind of a hunter
And a leopard is at the corner of your vision
Her spots
So luxurious and proud
Your barrel and cold light can not stop
The logic of a summer
Hunter, this feast you are going to
Should have begun a year ago…
You are but a latecomer
Your primitive forest
Is holding its breath, waiting for your return
To the worship.
June 30, 2009
狩猎之前
小玛仙
今天，上帝创造了日月——还有一天
还有一天……
炎热已经准备好了
夕阳也准备好了——为你做
纪念日的背景
你还是缄默，保持一个猎人的冷静
你的视角出现一只豹子
她的斑点
如此华丽和傲慢
你的枪口和寒光已无法阻止
一个盛夏的逻辑
猎人，你将去赴的这场盛宴其实
已经在一年之前开始……
你不过是一个迟到的人
你的原始森林
敛声静气，一直在等你归来
礼拜。
2009.7.30
by Xiao Maxian tr. Fan Jinghua
Today, God creates the sun and the moon…and for another day
And one more…
The heat is all ready
The sunset is ready too…as the setting
For your commemoration
You are silent, keeping a cool mind of a hunter
And a leopard is at the corner of your vision
Her spots
So luxurious and proud
Your barrel and cold light can not stop
The logic of a summer
Hunter, this feast you are going to
Should have begun a year ago…
You are but a latecomer
Your primitive forest
Is holding its breath, waiting for your return
To the worship.
June 30, 2009
狩猎之前
小玛仙
今天，上帝创造了日月——还有一天
还有一天……
炎热已经准备好了
夕阳也准备好了——为你做
纪念日的背景
你还是缄默，保持一个猎人的冷静
你的视角出现一只豹子
她的斑点
如此华丽和傲慢
你的枪口和寒光已无法阻止
一个盛夏的逻辑
猎人，你将去赴的这场盛宴其实
已经在一年之前开始……
你不过是一个迟到的人
你的原始森林
敛声静气，一直在等你归来
礼拜。
2009.7.30
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
SU Ruoxi: The Present Tense (excerpts)
现在时态 (选)
苏若兮（1977-）
The Present Tense (excerpts)
by SU Ruoxi (1977-) tr. Fan Jinghua
一
麦地空了
你找不到记忆它的人
水鸟不来湖水上写字
它或许，离开了它的故事
像那个坐在汽车里的人，押运晒干的麦子远行
摆脱了六月，视觉
和湖滩麦地的寂静
I
Wheatfield is emptied
You cannot find the one to remember it
The waterbird does not come to write on the lake
Maybe, it has left its story
Like the one in the truck who escorts the dried wheat to the distant
Ridding himself of June, vision
And the stillness of the lakefront wheatfield
四
浮萍，被风推着
从河的此岸浮到了彼岸
洗衣的人
不洗浮萍
河面上的风云
就这么动荡而缓慢
拧着脸，也不能回头
IV
Duckweeds, pushed on by winds, float
From this side of the river to the other
She who washes clothes
Does not wash duckweeds
The winds and clouds on the river-face
Are restless and slow as such
Their faces screwed, their heads unable to turn
六
我承认，对面的窗口，黑洞似的
离我很近
近又怎样
我连敲它的勇气都没有
它黑洞似的，张着大口
与我持久地对峙，天黑了
我告诉它，我还在
VI
I confess, the opposite window, like a black hole, looks
So close to me
But what then
If I do not even have the courage to knock at it
Well, it’s like a black hole, opening a big mouth
And it confronts me persistently till darkness falls
When I tell it that I still am
十一
要是可以写信
我就去远方
一群又一群的陌生者
满身寒霜
麻木到不会哭
我记下他们的面孔，在纸上涂抹
我不得不迷恋这样的工程
在信里画满墨水的嘶喊
告诉你
没有一声，是自己的
XI
If letters can be written out
I’d go to a faraway place
Strangers of groups
With frost on their head and shoulders
Grow numb and forget how to cry
I bear their faces in my mind and smear them on the paper
I have to be fascinated by this project
And in the letters I scribble down the cries of ink
Telling you
Not a single sound of these is mine
苏若兮（1977-）
The Present Tense (excerpts)
by SU Ruoxi (1977-) tr. Fan Jinghua
一
麦地空了
你找不到记忆它的人
水鸟不来湖水上写字
它或许，离开了它的故事
像那个坐在汽车里的人，押运晒干的麦子远行
摆脱了六月，视觉
和湖滩麦地的寂静
I
Wheatfield is emptied
You cannot find the one to remember it
The waterbird does not come to write on the lake
Maybe, it has left its story
Like the one in the truck who escorts the dried wheat to the distant
Ridding himself of June, vision
And the stillness of the lakefront wheatfield
四
浮萍，被风推着
从河的此岸浮到了彼岸
洗衣的人
不洗浮萍
河面上的风云
就这么动荡而缓慢
拧着脸，也不能回头
IV
Duckweeds, pushed on by winds, float
From this side of the river to the other
She who washes clothes
Does not wash duckweeds
The winds and clouds on the river-face
Are restless and slow as such
Their faces screwed, their heads unable to turn
六
我承认，对面的窗口，黑洞似的
离我很近
近又怎样
我连敲它的勇气都没有
它黑洞似的，张着大口
与我持久地对峙，天黑了
我告诉它，我还在
VI
I confess, the opposite window, like a black hole, looks
So close to me
But what then
If I do not even have the courage to knock at it
Well, it’s like a black hole, opening a big mouth
And it confronts me persistently till darkness falls
When I tell it that I still am
十一
要是可以写信
我就去远方
一群又一群的陌生者
满身寒霜
麻木到不会哭
我记下他们的面孔，在纸上涂抹
我不得不迷恋这样的工程
在信里画满墨水的嘶喊
告诉你
没有一声，是自己的
XI
If letters can be written out
I’d go to a faraway place
Strangers of groups
With frost on their head and shoulders
Grow numb and forget how to cry
I bear their faces in my mind and smear them on the paper
I have to be fascinated by this project
And in the letters I scribble down the cries of ink
Telling you
Not a single sound of these is mine
Fan Jinghua: Follow the Bits of Bread (IV) In the City
Follow the Bis of Bread 尾随一路面包屑
Part IV: In the City 第四章：在城中
Walking with you, in the blind gut in the city
I can still see the gold grains of the setting sun
和你走在城市的盲肠里
我也看见日薄西山的黄金
Everyday, we decide who should miss whom
By the game of “scissors, paper and rock”
每天，我们以包剪锤决定
今天应该谁想谁
They get rich and are getting richer
One by one, like the domesticated majority
At the end of the season
But I, two hands in back pockets of my pants, do not know
What I should hold on to my soul
他们一个一个都发了
像季节末尾的
驯服的大多数
我，双手插在裤袋中
不知道要坚持什么
A friend, newly rich but not noble enough yet, throws an extravagant banquet
That is like children on the sea-saw and he is heavy
You are in the game anyway, whether you bounce or you refuse to
富而不贵的友人豪气宴请
犹如上了跷跷板，而他很重
你配合是玩乐，不配合是另一种玩乐
On the dwarf wall between the supermarket and the parking lot
Sits a blank-faced old man
Facing the barrier-free link
Where an occasional wheelchair
Strenuously crawls up and nervously slides down
超市与停车场之间的走道矮墙上
一个不显表情的老头
面对残疾人通道
偶尔会看到轮椅
吃力地爬上，紧张地滑下
The homeless one on the bench
Intones
As if chewing on the words at the same time
He has an unhurried rhythm of his own
As people hustle by
长椅上的那个流浪汉
哼唱着
不急不慢，似乎细细咀嚼着歌词
而人们都匆匆而过
Part IV: In the City 第四章：在城中
Walking with you, in the blind gut in the city
I can still see the gold grains of the setting sun
和你走在城市的盲肠里
我也看见日薄西山的黄金
Everyday, we decide who should miss whom
By the game of “scissors, paper and rock”
每天，我们以包剪锤决定
今天应该谁想谁
They get rich and are getting richer
One by one, like the domesticated majority
At the end of the season
But I, two hands in back pockets of my pants, do not know
What I should hold on to my soul
他们一个一个都发了
像季节末尾的
驯服的大多数
我，双手插在裤袋中
不知道要坚持什么
A friend, newly rich but not noble enough yet, throws an extravagant banquet
That is like children on the sea-saw and he is heavy
You are in the game anyway, whether you bounce or you refuse to
富而不贵的友人豪气宴请
犹如上了跷跷板，而他很重
你配合是玩乐，不配合是另一种玩乐
On the dwarf wall between the supermarket and the parking lot
Sits a blank-faced old man
Facing the barrier-free link
Where an occasional wheelchair
Strenuously crawls up and nervously slides down
超市与停车场之间的走道矮墙上
一个不显表情的老头
面对残疾人通道
偶尔会看到轮椅
吃力地爬上，紧张地滑下
The homeless one on the bench
Intones
As if chewing on the words at the same time
He has an unhurried rhythm of his own
As people hustle by
长椅上的那个流浪汉
哼唱着
不急不慢，似乎细细咀嚼着歌词
而人们都匆匆而过
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